Bound By Sin
by Hadrianna
Summary: Sam and Dean are investigating the mysterious death of several people inside the ruins of an old church and soon have to discover just how far religious fanaticism may reach - and how painful it can become. Poor Sammy. Rated M for torture and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Bound By Sin – A Supernatural Fanfic**

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I don't own the Winchester brothers or anything related to the series. Bummer.

As English isn't my mother tongue, some sentences (and other grammar related areas) may sound strange and I welcome any kind of constructive criticism.

**Prologue**

_Jocassee Island, South Carolina, July 17__th__ 1973_

"Guys, come on! I... I don't think we should be here!", the blonde girl said while she tried to catch up with the group of five. "I think –" She cried out in surprise as her foot got stuck under some tree root and made her trip. "Guys, wait!", she yelled and rubbed her aching ankle. Two of the boys had already stopped and were pointing their flashlights at her, concern as well as annoyance glistening in their eyes. "You alright there?", one of them asked. He walked towards her and put out his hand to help her up. "Thanks, Jeff", she said once she was back on her feet. "But I'm not alright. Something's wrong. Something's out here!"

"Oh, come on, Leyla! Pull yourself together!", the other boy snorted and turned away from her, hurrying after the others. "There's nothing out here other than your vivid imagination!"

Jeff gave her his "He is right"-look, but he was still enough of a gentleman to light her way this time. Leyla wanted to believe him and Joe, but she just couldn't help it: all her senses seemed to be screaming at her, trying to persuade her to leave this island as fast as humanly possible. On the other hand, she didn't want to disappoint the others. It was the first time she had been asked to come to one of their private parties, and she had to be an idiot not to accept the invitation, even if this event would take place on an abandoned island inside some eerie ruins. Finally, she had been given a chance to prove herself! Therefore, she decided to simply shut her mouth and to ignore the anxiety that had tried to take the best of her ever since they had set foot on the island.

After a few more minutes, which seemed like hours to her, they reached their destination: the ruins of an old stone church. Leyla didn't know much about the history of this place; something about a fire and some old settlement. And some suicides that had taken place on this island, which had resulted in a single "Keep out"-sign outside the ruins. It didn't interest her either. The only thing that mattered right now was to show Robert that she was worthy of being a part of his clique. And so far, she hadn't done a very convincing job.

Leyla gazed at the broken walls of the old church, at the bricks lying scattered around and at the stone benches still standing inside the ruins like silent witnesses to the ravages of time. This place really spooked her out... She couldn't help but wonder whether some of those who had been sitting on these very benches still where right here, with her and the others. She didn't believe in ghosts, not until now, anyway, but somehow a tickling sensation had filled her body from the moment she got here, like an icy finger reaching right into her and touching her heart.

"We need some firewood", Robert said, interrupting her thoughts. "Isn't this place just awesome?" She hadn't even noticed him approaching her, but she managed not to jump in surprise at his sudden appearance. She forced a smile on her lips and answered: "Yeah, it really is."

"Here", he said, handing her his flashlight. "Help the others gather some firewood, me and Jeff'll take care of setting up camp."

Leyla nodded, placed her backpack on the ground and walked slowly back into the forest, still ignoring her inward voice that told her to get the hell out of here. Before long, she could hear music coming from the ruins, _Whiskey in the Jar_, _Thin Lizzy_, Robert's favorite song. Someone laughed out loud, beer bottles were opened. Leyla smiled, pleased with herself for once in her life. She had done it. She was actually out here with Robert and his friends. The thought alone made her feel almost high and she didn't even think about the darkness around her anymore. Even her thoughts about the island were gone for a moment.

Her flashlight hit some branches lying on the ground and she reached out for them, gathering an armful of wood before returning to camp. The tape recorder was still playing, _Vagabond of the Western World_, and Leyla moved her hips to the rhythm of the song, singing: "_Oh baby blue, oh blue eyes, oh baby blue, oh blue eyes ..._". Then she noticed something strange. No one else was singing. No one was laughing, no one was making the slightest sound. She could see the flickering shadows of the camp fire right outside the ruins, the tape recorder was standing beside it, a few bottles were lying around. But apart from that, there was no sign of the others.

Leyla ran towards the camp, carelessly throwing the wood she had gathered on the ground beside the fire. "Robert?", she called out, "Jeff? Joe?".

No answer.

"Guys? Where are you?"

Still nothing.

In a matter of seconds, every thought she had had about this island, these ruins and ghosts came back to her, but she still refused to believe that this was more than a boyish prank, and so she screamed hysterically: "Guys, come back! This isn't funny!". Moving around in a half circle, she used the flashlight to lighten up the trees and bushes, but she couldn't see further than a few yards before the light was devoured by blackness. Leyla turned around and concentrated her attention on the ruins of the old church behind her, nervously illuminating every corner of the old stone building. That was when she discovered Robert. He was lying beneath the broad stone portal, one of the few parts of the church still in one piece, and he wasn't moving. Neither were Jeff and the others, who were placed right beside their friend.

"Oh... oh my God!", Leyla shrieked and, ignoring any caution she might had had, jumped right across a low part of the wall, running towards Robert as fast as her legs would carry her. "Oh my God, Robert! Robert!", she repeated again and again as she knelt down beside him, grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Nothing happened. Was he... dead? Leyla took a deep breath, then she reached for his wrist and tried to take his pulse. She could feel it instantly, calm and steady, but he just wouldn't wake up. "Robert, please!", she pleaded, "Wake up!".

She couldn't recall, how long she had sat beside him, trying to remember anything she had learned about first aid, trying to understand what had happened to him and the others, when, suddenly, she heard his voice. It was quiet, though somehow insisting at the same time, but she was unable to comprehend a word of what he was saying. "R-robert?", she whispered, and then she heard it again, stronger this time, accompanied by other voices. She thought she could hear Jeff's voice too now, its volume increasing with each passing second. She looked down at them, but their faces where pale and showed no sign of life. Still the choir of voices grew louder and louder, culminating in a thundering crescendo that made Leyla feel as if her head was about to explode. There where other voices too, now, voices she had never heard before, speaking in the same strange tongue Robert and the others were using.

"Stop it!", she yelled in a desperate attempt to drown out the sound around her, but the voices didn't stop. They seemed to be approaching her from every side, surrounding her, stealing her breath, trying to suffocate her.

"NOOOO!", she screamed at the top of her lungs. Somehow she managed to scramble to her feet and to leave Robert's body. Gathering every grain of strength left inside of her, she forced herself to make another step away from Robert, and another one, until she finally had left the church, but still the voices followed her, seemed to fill her from the inside now. They were tearing at her, trying to pull her back. Her legs were moving on their own now, maybe fuelled by her survival instinct, she didn't know. All she knew was that she had to leave this place, leave the others, leave everything behind, in a desperate attempt to outrun the voices.

Leyla ran like she had never run before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

_Somewhere in North Carolina, March 6__th__ 2006_

Outside the window, the landscape drifted past, revealing one blooming field after another before turning more barren and hillocked. Soon, trees took over and before long they drove through a large hardwood forest area, every mile bringing them closer to their destination. The radio was playing "The road I'm on" by 3 Doors Down, its rock tunes contrasting sharply with the quiet countryside.

Sam had no ear for the song, nor an eye for the scenery, beautiful as the soft, rolling hills and rich woods of the Piedmont area may be. His sole focus lay on his father's journal and the files and articles he and Dean had gathered concerning the mysterious death of two teenagers in Pickens county, South Carolina. And the mysterious death of a middle-aged man two years before that. And that of a young woman ten years ago. Sam sighed, while he looked through almost 200 years of regional history, counting no less than 23 deaths which seemed to be connected to each other by one factor only: the place, where the bodies were found after weeks, sometimes even months of searching. The reports Sam had managed to extract from the state police's database were vague, stating only that their bodies were found inside something called the "Jocassee church ruins" and that every one of them, according to the autopsy, had died from thirst, which, according to the officers writing the reports, seemed strange as the church ruins were located close to Lake Jocasse, a large lake which was artificially created in 1967. And even before the emergence of Lake Jocassee, the area surrounding the church ruins was filled with small ponds and creeks. No one working with these cases seemed to be able to explain how seemingly healthy people had failed to keep themselves alive with water less than a mile away. There had been no signs of injury, no ropes which would have held them, no walls, no visible external aspects whatsoever.

"So", Dean said with a smirk, prompting Sam to look up from his documents. "I guess that's our murder mystery of the week." _I must have thought aloud_, Sam mused and smiled at his older brother's casual turn of phrase. With some delay he replied "Uh, I guess" and pulled out the file on the two teenagers, who had lived in the nearby university town Clemson. "Peter Harris and Kathy Mould, both 15 years old, were found two weeks ago in the ruins of the old Jocassee church", he summarised. "They had been missing for a week, when Peter's twin sister, Martha Harris, showed up at the local police station, apparently crying her eyes out. She told the officer in charge that she had abetted Kathy and Peter to spend one night inside the ruins of the old church, mainly so Peter could see what – and I quote - 'kind of an ugly, stupid, cowardly bitch' he was dating."

Dean sneered, but Sam decided to cut him off before he could utter one of his smart-ass remarks: "The police found Peter and Kathy in the dead center of the church, holding hands, their eyes closed as if they had died in their sleep. Dehydrated, of course."

"Who were the other victims?", Dean asked, more severe this time, his eyes fixed on the road. They were still in North Carolina, taking highway 178 towards Pickens, and were right now passing the Nantahala National Forest.

Sam didn't even blink at the word "victims", even though none of the files ever used that term for the deceased. If he and Dean had had any doubts about someone or _something_ killing those people, they wouldn't be here. "The first one recorded dates back to 1889, a farmer by the name of Jason Matthews, not much information available on him. As far as I know, he went missing in the winter of 1888 and was not found until march 1889. There are some rumours, however, about other farmers who disappeared in the years before that, but I have no dates, nothing solid. The next one was an old woman who lived in the Jocassee Gorges. No one had reported her missing, but hunters found her body in 1907."

"Hunters?", Dean repeated, obviously intrigued by the word, but Sam shook his head. "Just regular hunters", he explained, continuing with his summary. "The list goes on, more farmers, a few hunters, then, in the late 50s, tourists start disappearing and later turn up inside the church. After the death of three hikers in 1973, the state police decides to lock down the area."

"Let me guess", Dean interrupted. "Only thing they achieve is to attract more people."

"Right", Sam confirmed, "A group of teens decide to throw a party inside the ruins."

"Something crashes the party and they all end up dead", Dean guessed. "Same old story."

"Not quite." Sam began searching for a specific file, rustling with the paper. "Here", he said, "One of them survived. Dad made a note of this in his journal. The girl, 15 years old, was found wandering in the woods five days later, maundering about strange noises and voices in her head. She was convinced that her friends still existed inside of her and were punishing her for being alive."

"How did she escape?", Dean wanted to know. A road sign told them that they were five miles away from South Carolina.

"That's just the thing, she claims that she hadn't had to escape from anything. She had been out gathering firewood, and when she got back, her friends apparently had dropped dead. Then she began hearing voices, calling her from everywhere in an unknown language, and she ran away from the ruins into the woods. Says, she doesn't remember what happened in the five days she was alone, doesn't know how she survived either."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So her friends just ... died?"

"_Apparantly_ had dropped dead", Sam corrected, "She told the police they were still breathing when she left the church, but she couldn't wake them up."

"But when they found them, they were dead?"

"Yeah..." Sam's answer came hesitantly, he flipped between two of the files and added: "Actually, we could ask her ourselves. She lives in an asylum in Pickens, that's just a couple of miles from Lake Jocassee. Seems to be quite deranged, though."

"Let's keep her in mind", Dean said and changed the subject: "What about the others, any more witnesses?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope, none. Some more tourists, a few locals, and then our story ends with the twins and the unwelcome girlfriend. The only thing connecting them seems to be our mystery Jocassee Church."

Dean gave him a questioning look. "Did you find anything about it?"

"Not much." Sam found another piece of paper, reading the handwritten notes on the side of a tightly written text. He didn't even look up, when the Impala brushed past the state border and his brother said: "Welcome to South Carolina. Please make sure to visit one of our deadly ruins." He ignored Dean and went on: "Seems to be placed on some little island in the lake."

"That's a strange place for a church", Dean remarked.

"That's because it wasn't always an island. Back in 1967, the Duke Power Company built a dam, flooding a part of the Jocassee Gorges in order to provide the upstate area with electricity. Lake Jocassee is an artificial lake, and according to this article, various villages and old settlements were submerged during the flooding process. Including Jocassee Creek, the settlement responsible for the construction of our mystery church."

"I hope they sent out a warning in advance."

"They did, for the other villages. There was no need concerning Jocassee Creek as no one decided to move into the empty houses after our main disaster."

"Aka the big badaboom", Dean said with a lopsided sneer.

"The fire of 1814, exactly", Sam replied. "Someone trapped all settlers inside the church and set it on fire. According to these articles, no one survived. Kinda gives your the creeps, doesn't it?" He looked at Dean, his hazel eyes filled with a deep sorrow and compassion for the settlers' brutal fate. "Burning to death... knowing that everyone you love will die the same way as you..." He shivered.

"I guess that kind of desperation could drive you mad." Dean returned Sam's look and tried to give him an encouraging smile, which Sam accepted half-heartedly. They had other things to think about right now, and he was thankful that his older brother returned to the subject. "So, what do you think? Vengeful spirit?"

"Almost certain of it", Sam concurred. "Someone who envies the living for their life and therefore snatches it away. Just a strange m.o. for a ghost."

"I agree. Tell you what – once we meet our spirit, we just ask it politely. And then we waste it – rock salt, holy water, iron, the whole shebang." Dean slowed down the Impala and pointed at a road sign some yards ahead of them, which soon was followed by a crossroad. Pickens, 10 miles to their left, Lake Jocassee, 8 miles to their right. "But for now I say we check out these ruins." He grinned expectantly and turned right.

XXXXX

"That's as close as my baby can get us", Dean proclaimed a few hours later, pulled over and stopped the engine. Sam was pretty sure they were in the middle of nowhere, but according to the map they had found a small, dusty lane that went by the name of Bootleg Road. The old church was not even mentioned by that very same map, but in the file on Harris and Mould one of the officers had been so kind as to include a print of the area with a bold, red circle around a small island in Lake Jocassee.

"Then we better get a move on", Sam responded and opened the car door on his side. While Dean gathered their backpacks from the backseat, he took two shotguns filled with rock salt from the trunk and stowed away his father's journal and his own notes about the case in a briefcase.

"And who would we like to be on this fine day?", he heard Dean call from the backseat. Most certainly his brother was looking through their fake identities, trying to find one that would help them with their present case. "Let's see... U.S. Marshals... Journalists... Surgeons... Psychologists... Ah..." Sam could almost hear him smile from ear to ear. "How about Federal Law Enforcement Officers, working on a federal case of dehydrated victims..."

Sam didn't protest; this one seemed as good to him as any other identity as long as they didn't have more information concerning this job. They just needed some kind of I.D. in case someone ran into them at the ruins and asked some questions.

"Here you go, officer ... Stephen Adler." Dean came around the car and handed him a badge and a passport, then continued: "And say hello to officer Matt Sorum. You ready to go?"

Sam nodded, taking one of the backpacks as well as the map. "Jocassee Church is just half a mile behind those trees, with about 200 feet of shallow water inbetween."

"That is one lucky spirit", Dean commented and added, once he saw Sam's confused look: "I mean, the whole town goes Little Mermaid, but the one place our guy is haunting stays above ground?"

"Might be lucky for us too – who knows, maybe this thing would have haunted the whole lake if its haunting ground had gone 'Little Mermaid' as well", Sam countered, not quite in the mood for his brother's jokes. The knowledge about what had happened on Jocassee Island still occupied his thoughts, making him wonder what kind of person would kill more than 30 people, including children and women, and whether this person had found rest in his death. Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he shouldered his bag and turned towards the island. "Let's go."

XXXXX

Moving swiftly through the underbrush of the hartwood forest, Sam and Dean made their way towards Jocassee Island. After half an hour, the trees were replaced by a narrow beach with white sand and a handful of dead trees lying a few feet away from the forest. An old camp fire was placed directly by the lake, but it had been abandoned a long time ago. Sam gazed across the water, studying the opposite shore and the trees behind it closely. There seemed to be nothing suspicious about the island, but he knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Finally, the weight of the settlers' story was wearing of, and he was actually able to enjoy the fresh spring air. After a few seconds he looked down at the clear blue water, below which he could spot a bright path leading from the promontory he was standing on over to the island. "I think we can just wade through", he pondered, "unless you're afraid of your Little Mermaid?"

Dean acknowledged Sam's mood change with a smile and mumbled something incomprehensible before setting a foot in the water. His shoe disappeared in the white sand and he grimaced as the cold water soaked his sock and finally reached his skin. "Polar bears, if anything", he answered and hurried through the lake. Sam followed suit, keeping a wary eye out the whole time.

Before long, they reached the opposite shore and followed a small footpath to the western part of the island. They found two more camp fires, one of them being quite new, empty cans and even an old, ragged backpack, lying behind some bushes. Apparently, the old church was, despite three "Do not enter"-signs along the way, more of an attraction than both of them had expected, taken its long history of death into account.

The moment he saw the ruins, Sam understood why. In the middle of a large clearing, the old Jocassee Church arose with stonewalls black as night. 200 years ago, the building must have been quite a sight, measuring about 200 feet in length times 70 feet in width, Sam judged by eye. The foundation wall was still standing, although at some places it had been breached. Most parts of the wall were reaching up to his hips, except for the old portal on the western side of the church and the walls to both sides of it, which were still in one piece and stood out from the rest of the ruins like some kind of defiant soldier who wasn't ready to accept his downfall. Inside the church, the floor was still intact, and stone benches stood row by row, most of them fragmented and black like most of the bricks on the inner wall. On the eastern side, Sam could see the remains of an altar in the form of a altar stone lying on the ground, which was unusually large as it measured roughly 40 inches in length, 30 inches in width and 20 inches in height. Behind it, three steps of a staircase arose, which probably had led up to some sort of sacristy. Now all that was left of the eastern side was a pile of black stones.

Dean was the first one to regain his power of speech: "Must have been some hefty fire."

Sam nodded, still unable to say anything. Even though the terrible event had taken place almost 200 years ago, sensations of anguish and pain washed over him at the sight of the ruins, almost paralysing him. He needed a few more seconds to ward these feelings off, then he took a deep breath and concurred: "Yeah, you're right. Seems to have poisoned the ground too."

Dean blinked, took another look at the old church and said: "Well, I'll be damned." He climbed unto one of the higher pieces of the wall to get an overview over the clearing, giving an impressed whistle at his brother's discovery. The line of trees formed a perfect circle around the church, inside which nothing grew, no bushes, no grass, not even weeds. After 200 years of desolation, these stones should have been crawling with wild plants, pine trees should have reclaimed their natural habitat and the forest should have covered all of the ruins by now, but the area around Jocassee Church was as barren as the day the church had burnt down.

"Unholy ground", the brothers uttered simultaneously, and Dean added almost pleased: "Now we're talking!"

Sam didn't need any other encouragement to take the EMF-meter from his backpack. Placing himself directly in the dead center of the circle, he turned the device on and waited a heartbeat for it to start. Only a few seconds later, there was no doubt about the nature of their main objective: The EMF started beeping wildly, the needle raced towards the high end of the scale.

"Well, _something_ has been here", Sam commented while moving in the direction of the western treeline. When he passed the archway, the needle jumped right off the scale, but fell back to a more moderate level once Sam had left the church. The device went to zero as soon as he had crossed the line dividing clearing from forest. "And it seems to be constricted to that specific area." He pointed back at the church.

"That's comforting", Dean snorted. "Somehow it still manages to keep people inside that circle."

"Well..." Sam moved inside the circle again, left it, and entered it again. "I'm still awake. Seems to be constricted to a specific range of time too."

"When did you say that girl came here?", Dean asked, jumping down from the wall with a nonchalant move.

"Few minutes after eight, I think", Sam replied, "An unusual time for a vengeful spirit to appear."

"But not if something happened at exactly that time, right?", Dean persisted.

Sam nodded again. "That's one possible explanation, yeah. We could try and return tomorrow night, after we've done some more digging on the history of this place. But for now let's see if we can't find any more clues."

They split up again, wandering around the ruins for a few more hours and literally turning a stone or two, but apart from the missing plant life and the strong EMF-signal they found nothing. Sam walked around the entire outer wall, looking for signs that might have explained the unholy ground, while Dean investigated the inside of the church. Once they had finished their part of the church, they switched, hoping that four eyes would be able to detect more than two, but at last they had to give up empty handed. Whatever mysteries the old Jocassee Church held, they weren't to be found here. Not in broad daylight, anyway.

"Beautyful scenery, zero usefulness", Dean sighed and took a look at his watch. Half past four p.m. "I'm starving. Let's find a place to crash for the night."

Sam was just about to agree, when he noticed something strange by the tree line. Without saying a word, he moved towards a couple of bushes flanking the circle and knelt down in order to get a closer look. Dean followed him, confusion spreading on his face as Sam picked up a small violet flower and held it right in front of his nose with a triumphant grin. "Very pretty", Dean commented in a playfully bored tone. "But I don't think it'll be enough to feed us both."

Sam just stared at him in disbelief. "You don't recognise this?" After thirty seconds of silence and a shrug from Dean, Sam sighed and explained readily: "_Devil's bit_, Dean. 4 lobed flowers, un-lobed leaves?"

"Kinda rings a bell", Dean admitted.

"Your joking, right?" Sam stood up and waved the flower back and forth. "Remember what Dad taught us? This flower is known for its ability to add compulsive and controlling power to any spell it is made part of."

Dean didn't exactly look like he remembered any of this, but now that he knew what Sam was fishing for, his face lit up and he said: "So theoretically, it could be used to keep someone inside a ... circle."

"In combination with the right spell, yes", Sam concurred. "I'll look into it once we've found a place to stay for the night."

XXXXX

According to the map, the village closest to Lake Jocassee was Boones Creek. However, as there seemed to be no motel situated there, Sam and Dean decided to drive some miles back in the direction of the state border and then made a right turn towards Pickens. They reached the town just after nightfall and rented a room at the Laurel Mountain Inn, an upscale motel located in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Dinner consisted of fast food from a local diner, which after a day on dry biscuits and luke warm coke tasted like a world class menu.

"I don't quite get it", Sam muttered between a handful of French fries and a chicken nugget dipped in tomato sauce. He was sitting at a small table opposite of the TV, looking through the case files once more. "_If_, and that's a pretty big if, this spirit actually is able to bind its victims to that circle, wouldn't its powers seize to exist as soon as its hour of vengance passes?" Dean, who had just taken a bite from his hamburger, just shrugged his shoulders, so Sam went on with his thoughts: "I mean, granted, most spirits we've encountered were active a whole night at a time, but a timeframe of 8-12 hours is just not enough for someone to die from dehydration."

"Did Dad mention anything on this in his journal?", Dean asked before finishing his burger and emptying his glass in one gulp.

"Not really... He's printed an article about this Leyla girl, marking her name and the words 'apparently died from thirst'. Only interesting thing are the words 'spirit circle?' and 'imprisoned?', both ended by question marks, in Dad's handwriting. He must have had the same lack of ideas we have."

"What about that flower you found?", Dean tried a new approach.

"Apparently, its roots are used in Hoodoo magic, but I couldn't find anything on it being used as a part of binding spells. I guess it _is_ possible to combine its powers with any kind of control-based magic, and it might even keep the victim of the spell bound to a place long enough for him or her to die from thirst, but I don't think a vengeful spirit could do that kind of trick."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You sound pretty convinced."

"Well, of course all of my theories are based on what we have encountered so far, and correct me if I'm wrong, but all vengeful spirits we have met had, even though they were quite powerful, only common weapons at their disposal. Razors, rope, their own fingernails... but spells? I don't know. Maybe we're heading down the wrong alley." Sam ran his fingers through his hair and let out a long-drawn-out sigh. "How about we get some sleep? Talk to Leyla first thing in the morning, do some more research when we've had a good night's sleep."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day", Dean replied with a yawn. He stood up, took three steps towards the kingsized bed and let himself fall down on the heavenly soft matress, sighing audibly. "Now _this_ is life", he said with a grin and stretched his body with relish. Sam, who despite his words still had been pondering over the old church and its secrets, looked up and raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise: "You don't think that's where you're going to sleep, do you?"

Dean chuckled and countered without gazing back at his brother: "I won't even dignify that question with an answer."

"Hey, _you_ were the one too tired to look for another motel with more vacant rooms than the King Bed Suite!", Sam gave back, now getting up and walking slowly over to his brother. "That's why _I_ get to sleep here", he leaned himself on the thick matress with both hands and continued: "and _you_", at this he grasped the flannel coverlet, "get to sleep down there!". During these last words, he pulled the coverlet in his direction with a hefty jerk and followed up on Dean's surprised gasp by flinging himself against his older brother, thereby catapulting him out of the large bed.

"Nighty night", Sam purred with a voice as sweet as sugar and blew a kiss down at Dean, who stared at him in a mixture of disbelief, surprise and injured pride. Then Sam readied himself for the counter attack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

Leyla Harper, now 48 years old, had spent all of her life after the incident on Jocassee Island inside the walls of the Pickens Place Recovery Center. She hadn't left the Center when her mother died in a car crash in the mid-90s and she had refused to leave her room to visit her father, who lay dying from cancer a few years later. After that, her life had become even more quiet. At first, many of her friends had come to visit her, trying to encourage her to move on. Journalists had showed up, asking questions about what had happened on Jocassee Island. She had to go to several psychiatrical sessions every week, had to speak to different doctors, had to endure different medical examinations. Her parents had visited her almost every day, and they continued to do so even when all of her friends had abandoned her and all of the doctors had given up hope that Leyla ever might lead a normal life. After her parents' death, no one was left to talk to her, and she enjoyed every second of tranquility she could get. No one had ever understood how much even the slightest sound could hurt, how a mere whisper would bring back memories of those cruel days she had spent alone in the Jocassee Gorges. And sometimes, when she heard more noises than she could bear, when the memories of that night seemed to overwhelm her, those voices would return, haunting her, trying to dig their way out of her head, threatening to burst it in the process. So she just stared into the white, calm walls of her soundproof room, chasing every thought about the old church away as soon as it started to manifest itself inside her brain. At least that was what Emma told them, a young, handsome nurse who had worked at the Center for several years now and had tended Leyla ever since she had gotten the job.

When Sam and Dean came to visit her the next morning, Leyla didn't look away from the wall or react in any other way. "That's completely normal", Emma told them. "She won't show it, but she'll hear you. But..." She hesitated for a second, a hint of a blush showing on her pretty face when her eyes met Dean's: "Honestly, I don't think she'll help you much with your investigation, officers."

They had stuck to their Federal Law Enforcement Officer-identity, choosing a story that was as close to the truth at possible: They were investigating a federal series of incidents, where victims were found dehydrated, and were now trying to establish some kind of connection between those victims and the bodies found inside Jocassee Church. Interviewing any surviving witnesses was, of course, their first priority.

"Can't hurt to try", Dean said and gave her one of his charming smiles that made Sam roll his eyes. _Dude, seriously! Now?_ he thought, trying to catch his brother's eye. Surprisingly enough, Dean returned his gaze with an annoyed look that seemed to say: _Well, d'uh_. Then he concentrated his attention back on the nurse who was about to give them some final instructions before letting them walk through the door. "Now, remember, Leyla likes it quiet, so try to keep your voice down. You've got half an hour, that's as much noise as she can take."

"We'll keep that in mind, thank you very much for your cooperation", Dean said to the nurse, then, as he passed Sam, whispered: "That thing on the island messed our girl up pretty good".

After closing the door quietly behind themselves, Dean and Sam sat down in two chairs standing in front of the wheelchair Leyla was placed in. Still she was staring at some invisible point on the wall, not showing any sign of awareness whatsoever. If Emma hadn't told them about her condition, Sam wasn't sure he'd even bothered. As far as he could see, that poor woman was a vegetable.

"So, Leyla", Dean tried to make some conversation, leaning towards her, his arms folded in his lap. "Did Emma tell you, why we're here?"

Leyla didn't answer, but obviously Dean didn't expect her to, because he went on only a heartbeat later: "We heard about what happened to you in the Jocassee Gorges. Pretty nasty story."

Sam wasn't sure whether he was imagening things, but at the mention of the Jocassee Gorges, Leyla seemed to flinch. The movement was almost imperceptible, but still ... Dean's tactic not to mince matters seemed to work. "We've been out there ourselves, yesterday", he went on. Another flinch, this time Sam was pretty sure he had seen it. "Somewhat creepy, isn't it?" Again, the question was left unanswered. Leyla's deep blue eyes were still doing an impressive job at staring a hole into the wall. "Actually, we're thinking about visiting that place again, tonight. Around eight", Dean continued casually. "See, if anything happens." Sam could now clearly see the small jerks Leyla's body was making, as if she was trying to rock back and forth but was stopped by some invisible bonds.

Dean looked at Sam, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess we'll have to go there unprepared", he murmured and stood up. Sam followed his example and made for the door, but a whisper brought him to a sudden halt. "Don't go out there", a thin, exhausted voice said. He knew without turning around that Leyla had decided to breach her self-created shell. Now it was his turn.

"Why not, Leyla?", he asked softly, trying to look her directly into the eyes as he sat down in the chair once again. "Is there anything to be afraid of?"

It happened, only for a mere second, but Leyla's blue eyes stopped looking straight through the wall and met his. Sam could almost feel all the pain and desperation caught in those eyes like physical pain that seemed to stab his heart with an icy dagger. He gasped, taken completely by surprise, and was almost glad when she went back at facing the wall. "Evil", Leyla muttered, "An evil presence." "Yeah, we could feel it", Sam answered, careful not to look directly into her eyes again. "Do you know what it is?" Leyla shook her head, slowly, hesitantly. "You... you won't believe me. Nobody does", she finally said.

"Leyla...", Sam began, then stopped and reached out to her, placing his hands upon hers. He was afraid that she would react to his touch by looking up at him, but she just let it happen without any response. "This may be hard to believe after so many years, but we know. We know that there are ... _things_ out there that cannot be explained or understood by scientific methods. And we are trying to stop them from hurting others."

A tear shimmered in the corner of Leyla's eye, as she seemed to weigh the truth in Sam's words. "It...", she whispered, stopped and raised her head. "It murdered my friends", she proceeded after a few seconds, her voice firm now. "And it tried to take me too. It sent out voices, trying to drive me mad."

Sam took a deep breath and returned her look. This time, he was prepared for the piercing pain in his chest and managed to control it. "What happened, Leyla?"

Leyla waited some seconds, as if she was trying to find the right place to start**,** then she told them about the night on Jocassee Island. When she reached the part where she had found Robert and the others lying on the ground inside the ruins, she began to cry silently, her body trembling like a leaf. "They were still alive, but I... I just couldn't wake them up! Their faces were so pale, but they were still breathing. And that's when I heard Robert's voice."

"What did he say?", Sam asked, holding Leyla's hands, trying to comfort her.

"I... I couldn't understand him! I don't even think that it was really him. It must have been someone... _something_... using his voice to get to me. Believe me when I say, I have thought about his words every waking hour of my life, attempting to figure out whether it was him, whether he was trying to tell me something... I was a coward! I just ran! I left them behind!" Now the tears, imprisoned inside her for so many years, were streaming down her face, leaving wet streaks on her cheeks.

"You had no choice", Sam told her, his voice calm and soothing. "If you hadn't run, you would've died too, and no one would ever have found out what happened to Robert and the others."

"But no one wanted to listen!", Leyla cried, and though her body was that of a 48 year old, Sam could easily see the frightened, forlorn teenage girl who had lost her future in that single night. "No one ever made an honest attempt to find out what really happened!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing wildly. Sam gave Dean a questioning look that asked: _Now what?_

"That's why we're here", Dean said, adressing Leyla. "We're going to find out what happened to them."

For the first time since they had entered her room, the blonde woman looked directly at Dean, but he seemed to handle her intense blue eyes rather well, not flinching at all. And for the first time in 33 years, Leyla smiled.

XXXXX

"Sooo", Dean said after they had left the Pickens Place Recovery Center, "that was... interesting."

"What? Leyla's story or the nurse's humps?", Sam grumbled, turning around just in time to see Emma bat her long, dark eyelashes at his brother. Dean chuckled to himself and waved back at her in a smooth motion, but an annoyed look from Sam made him grow serious in an instant: "Her story, of course." They had reached the Impala, which stood on the guest parking lot. While opening the car door, Sam whispered in a sad voice: "I feel so sorry for her."

Dean, who had already been on his way into the car, paused his movement. "Sam", he said, his voice firm and resolute. "What's happened to Leyla is terrible. But it's in the past. If we really want to help her, we find that thing and send it to hell before it hurts anyone else."

Sam decided to accept Dean's change of subject; after all, sinking into compassion wouldn't defeat their vengeful spirit. "Question is how", he therefore answered with a question. "Her story didn't exactly mention any specific culprit. Just these voices. You think the others passed out from too much noise?"

"It's possible. A stimulation overload can cause the human body to simply shut down in order to protect itself", Dean pondered. "And I guess a spirit could use ghostly whispers as some kind of weapon."

For a second, Sam thought he must have misheard and just gaped at Dean in astonishment. When he didn't comment on his words right away, Dean gave him a sulky look across the roof of the Impala and exclaimed: "Oh, _come on_! I know things too, dude!"

Sam just lifted an eyebrow and decided not to pursue the interesting _how-on-earth-would-you-know-that_-point any further; there would be another time to discuss their research sources. "Unfortunately", he therefore interjected, "this theory requires the spirit to be active for several days as well. And I just can't see how that should be possible." Shaking his head, he got into the car and put the seat belt on. "Unless...", Sam pondered, his eyes suddenly blank. "That note Dad left about a _spirit circle_... maybe there is more to it than just a circle haunted by a spirit. Maybe _spirit circle_ is an actual term."

"Not a term I ever heard of", Dean replied, following suit and sitting down behind the wheel.

"I'm not sure, but it seems to ring a bell. I just don't remember when I heard it, or where." Sam sighed, closing his father's journal. "I think we'll have to get some more information on this case and hope that the pieces fit together at some point. Preferably before sundown."

"How about we split up? I'll pay dear Martha a visit in Clemson and find out what she knows about our mystery church and you'll do some digging at the local library?", Dean proposed. "Would save us some time."

Sam nodded in agreement, though his answer came somewhat reluctant. "You're probably right..."

"Probably?", Dean retorted in playful indignation while starting the engine, shifting into first gear and steering the Impala onto the street.

The prospect of spending hour after hour inside a half-dark library, looking through old, dusty tomes in order to find any clues on what might have happened in the Jocassee Gorges 200 years ago was not exactly Sam's idea of a fun day. Especially if he had to do all of the booky research alone, well knowing how Dean's own research would take place. But he knew that Dean was right too. This way, their investigation would advance much faster and enable them to take a closer look at the ruins right before nightfall before anyone else could get hurt. Therefore, instead of answering, Sam just snorted and unfolded the map of Pickens County, saying: "Turn right at the next intersection."

Dean stopped the Imapala with a jolt and gave his brother a long _God-what's-the-matter-with-you?-_look, resulting in Sam exclaiming: "_What?_"

"Damn, you must've gotten up on the wrong side of the bed", Dean just commented, shaking his head.

"I _didn't _get up on the wrong side of the bed, Dean, because I didn't _sleep_ in the bed," Sam riposted. Sam could see how Dean could barely suppress a laughter at the thought of their struggle last night, and even though he was still slightly irritated about his brother flirting with everything with breasts and a remotely pretty face, he couldn't help but smile at Dean's mischievous grin. "So how about we have this conversation again tomorrow morning after _you've _spent a night on the floor."

This time, it was Dean's turn to snort arrogantly. "We'll see about that, Sammy-boy", he countered, obviously deliberately using Sam's nickname to drive his younger brother up the wall.

"Jerk", Sam simply answered.

"Bitch", Dean shot back with a broad smile and started the car again, setting course for the Pickens County Library.

XXXXX

Dean blew the horn as a farewell and waved at Sam, who was just entering the library, his eyes still filled with a deep sorrow. Meeting with Leyla seemed to have shaken him more than Dean had realised, and once again since he had partnered up with his brother to find their father, he mused on how much of a burden it must be for Sammy to be so damn compassionate. _I certainly don't envy him_, he thought as he drove on to the highway towards Clemson. He knew he couldn't read his brother's mind; still, he was pretty sure that he understood how Sammy must feel. Leyla had awakened feelings inside of him too, even though he wasn't ready to show them in Sam's presence. Her story reminded him of what could have happened after their mother's death, if John Winchester had simply succumbed to sorrow and despair instead of drawing strength from those feelings and becoming determined to act in order to spare other families a similar fate.

Deciding that a rush of memories was the last thing Dean needed right now, he turned on the radio ans started singing along to Nazareth's _Bad Bad Boy_, enjoying the countryside whooshing by and the purring, soothing vibrations the engine sent through the Impala.

A few dozen songs later, Dean reached the turnoff to Clemson. He cast a glance at the map lying on the passenger's seat, on which Sam had marked the route to the house where Martha Harris and her parents lived, left highway 123 and followed the Old Greenville Highway towards the Clemson Memorial Stadium, turning right at Oak Street and entering a suburban area. The building he was looking for was placed at the end of a small street, a single-story brick house hidden behind thick bushes and large trees. In front of it, an old, brown Ford Granada was parked.

Dean stopped the Impala behind the Ford, casually checking out the neighbourhood while he left his car and walked over to the front door. As he had expected, all he could see were an empty street and deserted gardens. After all, it was half past ten a.m. on a tuesday. Still he was confident to be able to catch Martha at home, as no school girl he knew would have gone back to school so fast after an incident like this. If he was really lucky, her parents would be at work, allowing him to have a private conversation with the unfortunate sister.

He knocked at the door and waited a few seconds, then he could hear someone scramble around on the inside. Behind the curtains, which hung in front of the glass part of the door, he thought he could see a shadow moving further into the house, away from the entrance. _Dammit_, he thought, this wasn't going to be easy. "F.L.E.O, please open the door", he shouted, accompanying his words with a second, more vigorous knock. The shadow had now disappeared outside of his field of view and it had grown quiet inside the house. Dean sighed and knocked a third time. "I am working on a investigation concerning the death of a Peter Harris and I will have to ask you to cooperate with me on this." Before he could knock again, the shadow returned and moved slowly towards the door, unlocking it and flinging it open forcefully. A young girl stared fiercly at him. She had long, nutbrown hair, which right now was standing uncombed in every direction, and eyes of the same colour, though they were bloodshot as if she had cried recently. "Look, I have already told the police everything I know!", she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "Now leave me alone!"

"Woah!", Dean replied and raised his hands in a notion of surrender. "You must be Martha." He gave her one of his disarming smiles, but she just kept on gazing at him as if she was trying to make him disappear with the power of her mind. "Are your parents at home?", he went on without losing his smile. "I would like to have a word with them."

"No, they're not", Martha retorted and was about to slam the door, but Dean managed to plant his food between the door and the frame. "Then maybe you can help me", he said and took a step inside the house.

"That is called breaking and entering!", Martha shouted but was taken somewhat aback, when Dean just admitted: "Only entering. I don't recall breaking anything." Unfortunately, Martha didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes, because she just continued in the same high-pitched tone: "Get out or I'll call the police!"

"Now, calm down", Dean tried to appease her, while he took his fake badge from a pocket and showed it to Martha. "I _am_ the police and I only want to ask you a couple of questions. I know how hard all of this must have been for you, but ..." He paused, then gave her a somewhat conspiratorial look. "... we just think that we might have a lead on what has happened to Kathy and your brother."

That certainly got her attention. Martha stopped dead in her tracks and looked at him unbelievingly. Her next reaction, however, wasn't quite what Dean had expected: "You must be joking, right? Or are you some kind of ghost hunter?"

"Uh...", Dean began, but was interrupted by Martha before he could ask her, what exactly she meant. "Listen, I know very well what got my brother and that bitch of his! The stories were all true!"

"Stories..." Again, Dean only managed to say one word, before the teenage girl shut his mouth by explaining: "About a ghost inside the ruins! I thought it was a joke, I just wanted to scare her! I didn't mean for it to happen!"

This time, Dean didn't try to say anything. Martha seemed to need someone she could load her bad conscience on, and apparantly Dean had just arrived at the right time to be that someone.

"When I dared them to go out there, I didn't even think that anything could happen to them! I mean, this is the 21th century! Who believes in ghosts?" She made a wild gesture with her hand to underscore her words. "But a burnt down church and some suicides, and you got the perfect ghost story, right?" Dean nodded, trying to encourage her to go on. "But the stories were all true! And now, no one is listening to me! So unless you got a lead on a pretty pissed off ghost running around on that island, you're on the wrong track!"

"What makes you think it's a ghost?", Dean asked softly while putting his badge away.

"What makes you think it's anything _but_ a ghost?", Martha countered.

"I didn't say that", Dean shot back. "I just want to know what kind of evidence you have." When she didn't answer for a few heartbeats, he continued: "What kind of stories did you hear?"

Martha still looked as if she didn't believe a word of what he was saying, but Dean sure wasn't the one who would hold that against her. For all he knew, every police officer she had tried to convince of her ghost theory could have called her crazy and recommended her parents to sent her see some psychologist.

"You know, local history and such", she said hesitantly.

"Actually, I don't know. I'm not from around here", he explained. _Wrong answer_, he thought a second later when he felt Martha's suspicious gaze upon him.

"Then why are you investigating Peter's death?", she asked, her voice suddenly some degrees colder.

_Good thing to come prepared_, Dean pondered and replied calmly: "A similar case has come up in Nevada, and now me and my partner are trying to find out how these two cases are connected."

"You telling me they've got a haunted church there too?", Martha persisted.

"It's not a church, and I didn't say anything about a haunting." Dean crossed his arms before his chest and looked askant at her. "But why do you think Jocassee Church is haunted?" He could practically see, how Martha weighed his words for a moment or two and then gave up her resistance.

"It's that guy who started the fire", she stated in a firm voice. "He's still haunting the ruins. Can't find rest because of what he did."

_Finally something useful_, he thought, though he was not ready to celebrate just yet. "Who was he, Martha?", he wanted to know.

"I don't know", she muttered. "Just some random guy who was angry at the village, I suppose. Maybe one of the Indians who had been driven away from the Gorges, I don't know."

"Indians?" That part was entirely new and interesting.

"Yeah, you know, they were driven away from the Gorges in 1790-something, something about a new Indian line, I don't know."

Apparently, there was a lot Martha _didn't know_, Dean mused. "So the burning down of the church was some kind of revenge on the settlers who had moved in on old Indian territory?"

"Maybe." Martha shook her head. "But I really don't know. It's just stories, you know. Heard about the old settlement in school, and then all these suicides over the years, or what they were, so people started talking."

"By people you mean your classmates?", Dean assumed.

Martha nodded. "Became kinda _the_ thing to do if you wanted to do something for a dare. Peter and ... and that ... Kathy, they weren't the first ones to spend a night out there. I really, really, really didn't expect anything to happen, honestly!" Her aggressive exterior from before seemed to crumble more and more with every "_really_" she uttered. Comforting someone wasn't exactly Dean's speciality, but he decided to give it a try. "It's not your fault, Martha. It was their own decision to head out to Jocassee Island."

He could see that she had heard that kind of excuse more than enough during the past few weeks and still didn't believe it, so he cleared his throat and changed the subject again. "So, these stories... did you talk about them in class?"

Martha seemed to be relieved that they hadn't to linger on her part in this incident, because she hurried to say: "Yeah, we did... started in history class, Lucas was writing an essay about the Gorges and brought it up. He'd really read a lot about them, but I... we didn't listen too much to his facts. Not after Amy talked about the suicides."

_Guess the gossip factory was working overtime_, Dean thought. "Do you know where Lucas got his information?"

Martha stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "The library, of course."

"Of course", Dean sighed. The rest seemed to be up to Sam.

XXXXX

Sam gazed after the Impala until it had disappeared behind a tall building, then he closed the library door behind him and walked into the reception area. A middle-aged woman with her silvery grey hair tied up in a knot smiled forthcomingly when their eyes met and asked: "Can I help you, sir?"

Sam returned her smile and walked over to the reception desk. "I sure hope so, ma'am. I am interested in local history." Fortunately, the receptionist didn't force him to state exactly _what _he was interested in and _why_ he, if necessary, had the authority to access any kind of useful information – using a fake identity, as helpful as it was in this kind of investigation, always made him uneasy. Apparently assuming that he was a student from the university in Clemson or the like and had to write a paper on a part of South Carolina's history, the librarian explained politely where Sam would find the section on Pickens County. He thanked her and followed her instructions through the almost deserted library, until he reached a door with the inscription: "Local Archive". It was a heavy fire door which creaked loudly as Sam opened it, making him wonder how often (or seldom) someone strayed into this part of the building.

Behind the door, Sam could see high wooden shelves, towering in the shadows of a murky red light. The whole room reeked of dust and the air felt too dry to be comfortable, but it was probably the most preserving environment for old books a local library branch could sustain. Closing the door as softly behind himself as possible, Sam entered the room and looked for some place he could set up base. Behind some of the shelves, he found a small table with a taboret beneath and a bedside lamp placed on it; not the most luxurious working place, but it would have to do. Sam retrieved his notes and his father's journal from the briefcase and put them on the table, then he took a closer look at the shelves around him. Luckily for him, they weren't assorted by author but by geographic locality, which made it pretty easy to find a whole section called "Jocassee Gorges, The". After that, Sam's luck ceased. There were five long rows packed with thick tomes, stacks of loose articles and maps as well as small boxes filled with handwritten notes and old photographies. Someone had tried to organise this chaos at some point, adding small tabs with year dates or topics, but whoever had worked here, he hadn't been very systematic. Sam let out a resigning sigh. This would take a while.

He picked up a photo from one of the boxes and looked closely at it under the light of the small lamp. It was black and white and showed a large group of people standing outside some kind of factory. On the backside, someone had written in a neat handwriting: _The Johnson Family, 1948_. Not quite what he was looking for. Gazing at the spines of the books on the first row, those labelled "Early history", Sam found various books on the history of South Carolina and the United States in general – not very helpful either. He looked at the next row and stopped a heartbeat longer at an unusually thick tome with a flawed binding. "Now we're talking", he whispered to himself and pulled out _Early Settlements in the Carolinas_.

XXXXX

The next time Sam checked his clock, more than six hours had past. His head hurt from reading under the dim light in the local archive, and his stomach felt as if he hadn't eaten for days, but at least he had found some information that could prove useful. A knock at the door had interrupted his research, probably the receptionist who was about to tell him that the library would close in five minutes. "In a minute", he yelled, then he put the books and boxes back into the shelf, gathered his own notes and opened the door. As expected, the grey haired librarian stood outside and sounded almost regretful when she said: "I am sorry, sir, but we're closing up for today. Did you find what you were looking for?"

Sam gave her a smile and answered: "I did. If I need anything else, I'll come back tomorrow. Thank you very much for your help."

She smiled back at him, and as he left, Sam could hear her lock up the door to the archive. Outside, Dean waited, sitting inside the Impala and listening to some hard rock piece Sam couldn't recognise.

"You took your time", his brother said with a grin and held up a paper bag with the logo of a local sandwich bar. "Care for something to eat?"

"I'm starving." Sam jumped into the car and ripped the bag from Dean's hands. Just before taking the first bite from a tuna sandwich, he asked: "What'd she say?"

"You're welcome", Dean sneered and started the Impala's engine. Sam mumbled something incomprehensible between two bites which seemed to be good enough for Dean who began telling him about his encounter with Martha. Once he had finished, they were already on their way out of Pickens. "So according to her, our friend is a restless murderer who just didn't notice he died in that fire. But I'm still not quite convinced. Did you find anything?"

Sam nodded. "First of all, most of what she told you about the history is correct. In 1797, a new Indian line was delineated, allowing settlers to move into the Jocassee Gorges which until then had been Cherokee territory. But the Indians had left peacefully, so I'm not so sure about Martha's theory. Anyways, the first thing our settlers do is building the Jocassee Church under the guidance of a reverend Dickens. Apparantly, he was a very benign man, caring more about the welfare of his flock than his own life. He was the prime mover behind the Jocassee Creek settlement, and though times were hard and the Jocassee Gorges weren't exactly the Garden of Eden, he managed to keep most of his flock alive for fifteen years. I found a quotation that describes the life of settlers in the Gorges pretty vividly." Sam picked out a note he had written during his research and read aloud:

"_They survived by growing corn and making liquor, raising hogs and rearing children. Tough and independent, they married among themselves, forming strong ties of blood kinship. They built schools and churches, opened stores and ran grist mills ... a boy plowing a mule through rocky ground; a man hauling corn to his still in the gorge, then moving that still by night because of the rumor of a revenuer; a woman with raw hands humming a tune in a minor key as she hangs out clothes in a cold wind; a congregation singing a capella in a plain, unpainted church; a couple burying a little girl who died of diphtheria. All that living and dying. All those stories._"

"Sounds like a boat load of fun", Dean commented, his voice dripping with irony.

"Yeah, the poor reverend became a victim of those harsh conditions too. Died from diphteria in 1812, leaving a devastated flock behind." Sam found another note and continued: "Wasn't until 1813 that Jocassee Creek got a new reverend, a very young one, according to these sources, a man named Charleston. I couldn't find much about him, just a small painting and some loose information on his background. Apparently, he implemented a great deal of changes concerning the service and even reconstructed parts of the church, but he isn't spoken of as warmly as reverend Dickens. Says that he wasn't very happy with his new job, and too much of a religious fanatic. "

"Does it say what bothered him?"

"Not really. But I found out that he came from a large town. Maybe he just had expected to tend a larger flock, or maybe farming just wasn't his cup of tea. Poor guy died in the fire of 1814 too, and after that rumours spread that Jocassee Creek was cursed. The town was deserted until it was flooded in 1967 after the construction of the dam."

"Any mentioning of a serial killer in the Gorges, by any chance?", Dean asked.

"Not as far as I can see. But I think I found something else", Sam answered. "About the _spirit circle_."

"What about it?"

"I think it's some kind of ritual, binding a spirit to a specific place. Pretty much like a demon trap, just for spirits instead. I'm pretty sure I heard Dad talk about it at some point, but I don't remember much of it. Something about signs and buried relics or the like." Sam scratched his head and tried to remember more about this kind of ritual, but he was completely blank. "Still, even if someone at some point _has_ turned that church into a spirit trap, it wouldn't be able to catch humans. And it wouldn't have turned the ground unholy."

"Well, it can't hurt to look for any signs of a ritual", Dean pointed out.

"_That_", Sam countered in a grave tone of voice, "I wouldn't be too sure of. We still don't have any idea about what kind of creature we're dealing with."

Dean nodded in agreement, but he didn't seem to be willing to give up just yet. "I know. That's why I say we go out there and gather some first hand information."

"I don't know, Dean, I've got a bad feeling about this..." Sam checked his watch, then made up his mind. "Alright, we've got about an hour till sunset, and then almost an hour more before or mystery spirit should show up. Let's look for markings in the stones, anything we might've overlooked yesterday, and then we get the hell out of there before anything happens."

"Right", Dean said with a determined smile. "Sounds like a plan."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

The sun was already setting at the time Sam and Dean made it back to the small island in Jocassee Lake. Once again, they had parked the Impala at the side of Bootleg Road and had waded the 200 feet through the dark, cold water, carrying their weapons above their heads. Now they were making their way through the thick underbrush of hartwood forest, finally reaching the ruins of old Jocassee Church, which stood tall and black against the green of the forest, embraced by long shadows. Sam shuddered as the sun disappeared behind the mountains and the last red light passed from his sight. A musky twilight covered the two brothers and sent strange feelings through him that he was sure he hadn't felt yesterday in broad daylight.

"Weird place for a night out", he whispered to himself, thinking about Leyla's story, and wrapped his arms around his body to fight off the cold which followed the nightfall. Even though spring was only around the corner, the March nights in Upstate South Carolina seemed to be pretty chilly, especially after having waded through the cold water of the lake. Or was it something else? Cold spots, maybe?

"What are you talking about?", Dean replied with a smirk. "An island in the middle of nowhere, eerie ruins and the legend of an insane mass murderer – it's the perfect stage for a fun night." Sam forced a smile on his lips and said in a soft tone: "I don't know, Dean, this place just ... scares me. It's like there is ... _something_ ... here, right now."

"Well, d'uh." Dean rolled his eyes. "You saw the EMF-readings. Why else would we be here?"

"Dude, seriously!", Sam exclaimed, staring intently at the old church and tightening the grip around his shotgun. "That 'vengeful spirit' theory, I ..." He was not quite sure how he should describe the feelings these ruins aroused inside him; it seemed as if there were more ... _entities_ than just one spirit, as if there were hundreds of restless souls moving through the demolished walls of the church, waiting ... waiting for what? And how come he hadn't felt any of this during their first inspection of the place?

"You okay there, Sam?"

Sam looked up, feeling desoriented and exhausted. "Yeah, I was just ..." He stopped, struggling to find the right words, but had to give up when his eyes met Dean's. His older brother gave him a confused look, then asked him with sincere concern in his voice: "You know, maybe you were right, maybe we should just wait until tomorrow. Get some rest. It has been a long day for both of us." Once again since their search for John Winchester had begun, Sam felt a comforting warmth inside him at Dean's words. It felt good to know that he wasn't alone in his quest, that his brother was watching over him as he was watching over Dean. "Nah", he answered with another forced smile. "I'll be alright. Let's start by looking for markings on the outer stones." He made a nod towards the left side of the ruins, pulled out a flashlight and began searching the outer area for something he might have missed yesterday when he hadn't looked for anything in specific. His conscience tried to convince him that he at least should have attempted to explain this strange sensation of various spirits inside the church to Dean, but he just didn't know how. He wasn't even quite sure about the feeling himself. Many souls – yes, but he was unable to sense the kind of cold, angry aura that a vengeful spirit radiated.

Sam tried to push all these thoughts away, as they were no use to him at this moment. Right now, he had to focus on what he _saw_, not what he _felt_. The beam of light hit scattered stones, blackened from the fire so many years ago, but not one of them showed any of the signs he was looking for. The lack of weeds made him wonder once again what kind of ritual or incident could have desecrated an entire clearing.

Without even noticing it, Sam had reached the portal leading inside the ruin, and he decided to continue to look for signs inside the church. With most of the walls lying in pieces around the archway, its purpose had been nullified, but somehow it still felt right to enter the church through it. "You find anything?", he called out to Dean before setting foot inside the ruins.

"Still nothing", he heard his brother yell from the other side of the church. He could see the ray from Dean's flashlight cut through the darkness, moving slowly around the right side of the ruin towards him.

"I'll take a look inside", he said and stepped carefully through the portal while lifting the shotgun – just in case.

XXXXX

"Still nothing", Dean answered in the very second something caught his eye. He stopped and looked down on one of the stones before him. It was similar to the others lying around it, a large brick, singed on one side, probably stemming from the inner wall of the church. But what had caught his attention were the signs on its other side, which would be barely detectable in daylight but now shimmered brightly in the concentrated beam of his flashlight. He knelt down and turned the stone, which until now had stood upright, so only its outer side was visible. Something had been carved into the brick, a small pentagram filled with various signs somehow familiar to him, but right now he was unable to determine where exactly he had seen them before. They seemed to be grey, the same colour the stone was on its unburnt side, with some kind of metallic gleam. He had seen them before, he was sure of it... Maybe Sam would remember. After all, his younger brother had always had the better memory concerning signs and rituals. Maybe this would help him find out whether they indeed were dealing with a _spirit circle_. Dean was about to call out for Sam, when he heard his brother announce: "I'll take a look inside."

For some reason, these words made Dean uneasy. He felt his stomach tensing up, and suddenly Sam's strange behaviour a short while ago came to his mind and refused to leave. What if his brother had been right? What if it wasn't some kind of spirit that could be chased away by rock salt and holy water? "I'll be right there", he shouted back at Sam and turned away from his find in order to enter the church from the other side, stepping over a low part of the wall. "Sam?", he called out. The anxiety inside him grew once he realised that he could see no sign of Sam's flashlight. Still no answer. The ray of his own flashlight split the darkness in half, touching more burnt stones, parts of walls, stone benches and the altar stone like a ghostly finger. He couldn't help but shiver. "Sam?", he tried calling for him once again. His heart began to beat faster, hammering against his chest, and his stomach suddenly seemed to consist of nothing more than convulsive pain. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. "Sammy?", he said this time, not even thinking about his choice of words and Sam's dislike of his nickname.

And then he saw him. Just on the other side of the portal, his flashlight hit something green that stood out from the grey and black background of the church. Sam's jacket. Dean's heart seemed to stop for a second as the beam of light slid over his brother's back and finally came to a halt upon his face, which was half covered by hazel coloured hair. He was lying on his side, both hands resting upon the shotgun before him, his eyes were closed. The flashlight was placed beside him, apparantly broken from the fall.

"No", Dean whispered and allowed his mind to be encompassed by panic for just a second. Feelings rushed through him, threatening to tear him away, a furious combination of concern for his brother, guilt for not taking better care of him and fear for a future without Sam. Gathering every grain of mental strength he had left inside of him, Dean forced himself to take a deep breath. He would neither be able to help himself nor Sam, if he allowed his feelings to take over. From the files and the stories he knew that all those people were alive at least for some hours; Leyla had even been convinced that her friends were only asleep. And as long as Sam was alive, there was hope.

Dean hurried towards his younger brother, his shotgun ready, his attention focused on his surroundings. Somewhere something was hiding itself, and it must be doing one hell of a job in order to surprise Sam. He passed the altar stone, stepping over rocks and bricks on his way, but nothing tried to stop him. Nothing showed itself. Once he reached Sam, he turned in a full circle, checking every corner of the old church, before kneeling down beside his brother and taking his pulse. It was slow, exactly as if he were sleeping, but contrary to someone asleep he did not react to Dean's presence in any way. "Sammy, I'm sorry", Dean said softly, brushing a streak of hair away from his brother's eyes. Sam's angelic face was unnaturally pale, but at least his breath was calm and steady. "Damn, I should have listened to you", Dean went on, desperately shaking his brother's lifeless body despite knowing that Sam wouldn't wake up from his touch or voice alone. He had to find out what was happening inside this church, and he had to find a solution _fast._

XXXXX

Dean spent a few more minutes by Sam's side, hoping beyond hope that his brother would open his eyes, smile mischievously and tell him that it had been a joke. A childish, idiotic one, but a joke nonetheless. Of course, none of that happened. Dean's mind was furiously scanning every detail he had heard or seen in the past two days, running through every conversation he had had with Sam, Leyla and Martha, trying to remember each article and file he had looked through. The word _spirit circle_ turned up again and he decided that it would be best to continue where he had left off and take a closer look at the markings he had found on one of the stones.

First, however, he had to make sure Sam wouldn't die from hypothermia. He placed a hand on his brother's forehead, which felt alarmingly cold. Goosebumps had formed on his bare skin and his breath was condensating in front of his face. Dean took off his leather jacket and placed it gently on Sam's chest, then he whispered with a comforting smile: "I'll be back in no time. Don't go anywhere." He knew Sammy couldn't hear or see him, but the comforting part had mostly been to calm himself down. Casting a last glance at his brother, Dean lifted the flashlight and hurried back through the forest towards the car. Every fibre in his body baulked at leaving Sam alone inside the ruins, but he didn't know what would happen if he carried him past the line of unholy ground, and he desperately needed something to warm his body while he was sleeping. So Dean ran through the hartwood forest as if the devil himself was chasing him, crossed the water as fast as his legs would allow him and reached the Impala after only ten minutes. Gasping for air, he snatched two blankets and a first aid kit from the backseat before returning to his brother in record time. Sam hadn't moved and still didn't react to Dean's presence, not even when he spread out one blanket on the ground, lifted his brother up and placed him gently on the soft layer. The other one he used as a cover, making sure that it provided as much shelter as possible. The next step was building a camp fire, which was easily done as the floor of the old church was filled with twigs and branches. He used withered leaves and a part of his shirt as tinder and ignited the fire with the lighter he carried around in case there were any remains to burn.

Once he was sure that there wasn't any more he could do to ensure Sammy wouldn't freeze to death, he granted himself a second of repose in order to settle his thoughts.

He hadn't even rested for half a minute when he heard a voice. Sammy's voice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

Holding the shotgun with his right hand and leaning the barrel on his left arm which held the flashlight, Sam pointed his weapon at the empty entrance in front of him and stepped carefully through the archway. He only had a fraction of a second to think _Wrong move!_, then he was engulfed by a blindingly bright light that never _ever_ could stem from a flashlight. A sharp twinge shot through his chest, followed by an agonizing pain that spread out through him from his heart and reached out to the farthest corners of his body. Sam could feel something grasping him from the inside, tearing at him, trying to drag him away. It hurt so much, so terribly much that he let out a panick-stricken cry, but for some reason it seemed to be drowned out by ... something, maybe the light around him, maybe something else, he didn't know and he wasn't in any condition to dwell on the subject. All he could think about, feel, hear, taste and see was anguish, coursing through his veins and threatening to tear him apart. Then another thought fought its way through the veil of pain and sent new waves of panic through Sam. _Dean._ _I have to warn Dean_. _It's here. Can't fall asleep. Can't fall asleep!_

Strangely enough, he didn't. He was sure that sleep would overman him or that he at least would pass out from the tormenting seizures, but nothing happened. The pain ceased as fast as it had come and the light around him dimmed down to a more humane degree that didn't blind him anymore. Still he was pretty sure that any kind of light that didn't originate from a flashlight shouldn't have been here, so he took a deep breath, readied his shotgun ... and gasped when he discovered that his weapon was gone. So was his flashlight. Reflexively, he reached inside his pockets and had to find that everything else he had brought with him to combat whatever was haunting the old church had disappeared too. _I'm so screwed_, he thought, trying to control the anxiety that once again was about to turn into panic. By now, the light was down to a normal level, and when Sam looked up from his empty hands he could see its source; several torches where fixed in iron brackets on the wall opposite to him, right above several rows of stone benches. Sam blinked, but the strange picture remained. _I must have passed out_, he pondered. _Must've hit my head pretty hard on the way down._ Sitting on the benches and facing the altar on the eastern side of the church, he could see more than fifty people. All of them sat silently, their eyes blank, and not one of them reacted as he took a step forward. On his left side, he passed a low shelf filled with small, worn-out books, on his right side he saw a heavy, dark veil covering some kind of entrance.

"What the ...", he mumbled to himself and turned around, not ready to believe whatever was going on here. Behind him, a large, double-winged wooden door filled the archway that he just had passed through seconds before, which didn't make any sense. But then again, nothing here did. Moving in a full circle, Sam tried to take the scenery in, gathering every detail in order to find any kind of answer to what had happened to him and the old Jocassee Church. He counted 57 people in all, men and women, most of them dressed in simple grey garments and tattered shoes, their grey hair long and disheveled. The torches seemed to distort the light in some strange kind of way as all Sam could see in the church, even the flames and the people's skin, were held in the same greyish tone. The faces of those he tried to get a better look at were blurred, strangely indistinct, as if they were only shadows of themselves. On the altar, that was made of wood with a thick altar stone on top, Sam could see several candles burning in the same misty grey colour. They were placed around some kind of basin filled with a dark liquid on the left side and a large open book on the right one. Directly behind it, a large crucifix, made from two solid wooden poles that were wedged into each other, arose. On its left side, a staircase led up to a small door. Sam raised his brow at this; he was pretty sure that the altar stone in the ruins had been placed further towards the staircase than this one which was much closer to the first row of benches. But then again, was he even still inside the ruins?

A rustling sound behind him almost made him jump. Turning around, he could see a hand drawing the heavy veil aside, then a man emerged from a small room filled with shelves. Before Sam could take a closer look at their content, the man had pulled the veil back and made a step towards him. He was smaller than Sam, by more than a head, maybe twenty-twentyfive years old and dressed in a long, black gown with a white clerical collar around his neck. His long, brown hair was tied into a ponytail, with a thick fringe bordering his soft, delicate features. A pair of emerald green eyes gazed at Sam, shining bright with interest. The grey colour that seemed to have taken a hold of everything else inside the old church obviously didn't affect him, Sam noted, still highly confused. Somehow, that man seemed familiar, he just couldn't put a finger on where he had seen him before.

"Welcome, my friend", the man said in a soothingly calm tone and smiled suavely. "Please, take a seat, we are about to begin."

"Uh", was the most intelligent answer Sam could muster. He wasn't quite sure what to make of all of this, but for now the man, most likely a reverend, didn't seem to be a threat to him, so he decided to play along. Nodding, he returned the preacher's smile and steered towards an empty bench to his right. Without warning, the man grasped his arm and yanked him back with such strength that Sam let out a surprised gasp and brought himself into a defensive position within a heartbeat. But still, the preacher just smiled, let go off Sam and handed him one of the small books from the shelf instead. "You wouldn't want to participate in a liturgy without your chant book, would you, son?", he asked. "Unless of course you know all of the psalms by heart."

_Nutcase_, Sam thought and toyed with the idea of turning around on his heel and leaving this place, but he still had to find out what had happened to him and why he was brought here, so he just took the book from the man's hand and forced another smile on his lips. "Thanks", he said and sat down on the outer edge of the bench closest to the portal. Just in case. The preacher bowed slightly and made his way up to the altar. No one of those present followed him with their eyes, no one even moved or made the faintest sound. Almost as if they weren't really there, Sam reasoned. Again the idea of shadows flashed past him. Shadows – or ghosts? Once again, he gazed at those gathered inside the church and wondered about their greyish colour and the clothing they were wearing. It was impossible for him to determine any kind of timeframe for their garments or for their hairstyle, but as far as he knew ghosts would always appear in the shape and clothing they had had at their time of death. Looking at the preacher again, he'd guess that both hair and gown could be found somewhere around 1800-1850, which would match the time of use of the old Jocassee Church, but ... Suddenly, it came back to him. The painting he had found inside one of the books on the history of the Gorges! The man up there looked exactly like the young man who had stepped in to take Dickens' place as reverend in Jocassee Creek. Reverend Charleston. Something else caught Sam's eye too and he stared in disbelief at a young girl and boy who were sitting close to the altar. What had distinguished them from the rest of the flock was their colour: the short, brown hair of the boy and the blonde locks of the girl stood out from the people around them like a beacon in the night, and so did their colourful t-shirts and light skin. Sam knew these kids, he'd seen them yesterday in one of the files: Kathy and Peter. Now that he knew what to look for, he could make out other people with just a hint of colour and distinct shapes, though none of them were as visible as the two teenagers.

"Spirit trap...", he mumbled to himself and recalled the sharp pain that had shot through him when he had entered the church. And then he understood. Those people who had been found inside the ruins hadn't been asleep, not in the formal sense of the word, anyways. They had simply lost their souls. As had Sam, the moment he stepped through the archway. He didn't know how this was possible or what kind of magic was able to pull a man's soul from his body, but here he was, sitting inside a church that had burnt to the ground almost 200 years ago, listening to the voice of a preacher who had been dead just as long. And from one second to another, that voice wasn't as calm and soothing anymore.

"Hell awaits you, all of you! You are eternally bound by sin, and for your sins you shall burn in the fires of hell", Sam heard the reverend say in a chillingly cold tone that sent shivers down his spine. If he commenced every service with a prelude like this one, it wasn't too hard to imagine why most of what he had found on Charleston had mainly been of a hostile nature. "Forget about a benevolent God, forget about a forgiving God!", Charleston went on, his voice soon a thundering crescendo: "The Lord is all-knowing, and he has seen your sins. You have condemned yourselves! As is said in _Matthew 13:41-42, the Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; and shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth._"

"Someone has lost his faith", Sam whispered to himself, shaking his head. Something had clearly driven the spirit of the young reverend mad, but still that didn't explain how all of this – the church, the flock, everything – had ended up being Charleston's playground. Had he actually turned into a vengeful spirit after burning to death? But if so, how come he still seemed to have kept his sanity? And how had he managed to hold the others inside the church? A tickling sensation crawled up through Sam's feet and legs and he reflexively bent forward to scratch his leg. His hand touched something unexpected, and when he looked down he saw five, six violet flowers placed on his jeans. They were attached to thin, hairy, green stems that had started to wind themselves around his shoes, but jerked back at his touch and disappeared underneath the bench he was sitting on. _Devil's bit!_, he thought, startled. The same flower they had found just outside the unholy circle! Examining the people around him carefully, he could see the stems of the _Devil's bit_, though grey and almost as indistinct as the features of the others, coiled around their legs and wrists, obviously holding them bound to their seats. _That's one mystery solved_, Sam mused. Who'd have listened to that crazy reverend by own free will? Question was whether it really was Charleston who was using the compulsive powers of the _Devil's bit _to keep the spirits of his flock under control. After all, Sam had never heard of a spirit that was able to hold other spirits captive by means of magic. On second thought, he had never heard of anything like this at all. However, the sight of that plain violet flower awakened something inside him, just a flash of a memory, something he had read somewhere. Or something, his Dad had told him.

_The Key of Solomon._

It had to be. The only thing he had ever heard about that actually could bind a spirit for good. He had simply been too narrowminded when he had read the words _spirit circle_, not thinking about possible synonyms. Like a _consecrated pentacle _as it was described in the _Key of Solomon_, one of the earliest works on the conjuration and excorcising of spirits and demons. Combined with the root of the _Devil's bit_, buried at each of the five apexes of the pentagram, the pentacle would be a powerful prison for spirits. But then again, how could a conjuration using God as some kind of medium desecrate the church and everything around it? And, even more pressing, why would anyone do it? Why would anyone deliberately hinder the natural passing on of souls? It didn't make any sense.

One thing, Sam knew for sure, though. As long as he was a spirit, the _Devil's bit _was as dangerous to him as to the other poor souls inside Jocassee Church. He had to get out of here. Fast!

While Charleston still roared on about the fires of hell and the condemnation of the soul, Sam stood up, making sure that nothing of the _Devil's bit_ had strapped itself unto him, and moved slowly back to the portal while avoiding Charleston's eye. At least he knew about the powers of the _Devil's bit_, which probably was more than any of the others present inside the church, and that gave him the hope that maybe he could just walk right back through the archway and transfer his soul back into his body.

Still, he knew it was a feeble hope. If he had been in Peter or Kathy's place (or in that of anyone of the others trapped here), he probably would have headed right back for the portal the very second he had seen the ghostly scenery, not even giving the _Devil's_ _bit_ the slightest chance to gain control. Something else had to be at work here, something he hadn't thought about until now. After four steps, he had made it to the large, double-winged door and reached out to touch the curved handle.

That was when his luck ended. He could almost feel the reverend's stare and he knew beyond all doubt that the next words were meant for him. And they did note bode well. "_Luke 19:27_", Charleston said, every single word crushing down upon Sam like a hammer. "_But those mine enemies, which would not that I should reign over them, bring hither, and slay them before me._"

XXXXX

_Devil's bit... Devil's bit... Devil's bit..._

Dean was pretty sure that what he could hear right now was Sammy's voice, repeating the same two words over and over again. _The flower!_, he remembered and looked at the place where his brother had found the violet plant the day before. They hadn't talked much about it since their conversation at the motel as Sam had been unable to find anything else on its use, but somehow it seemed to be connected to the old church. Question was, how exactly? Raising the flashlight, Dean walked slowly over to the bushes and picked another _Devil's bit_, constantly keeping an eye out for possible threats. Controlling and compulsive power, he pondered. Was it the flower that held his brother captive, somehow? As part of a ritual? He returned to the stone with the markings, still holding the plant, and tried once more to figure out whether he had seen these signs before. They seemed familiar, no doubt about it, and yet he couldn't quite place them anywhere in his memory.

For the hundreth time, he wished that he had been more careful, more suspectible to Sammy's warnings, and for the hundreth time he brushed away these thoughts. No use blaming himself, that would only make him less vigilant towards any dangers that might be inside the ruins. Instead he got up again and made his way around the church, looking for other stones like the one he had found. That one had been exactly opposite to the archway leading into the church, so he tried his luck inside the stone portal, though he was careful not to walk straight through the archway, as he had discovered Sam right on its other side. "Yahtzee", he whispered as the light beam was reflected by a silvery sparkle. One of the headstones on the outer wall bore similar markings.

_Luke 19:27_, Sam's voice shot through his brain, sounding slightly nervous. Dean shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand. He knew that Leyla had heard voices too and that their words hadn't made any sense (_Luke 19:27?_), and the last thing he needed right now was a chaos of noise inside his head that would drive him mad. He turned to the southern wall of the church and used the flashlight to examine every single stone thoroughly, until he found another one with markings on this side as well. If there was one stone more on the opposite side, they would form a cross through the church, with its top at the wall behind the altar, which was strange, because a binding ritual normally would take the shape of a circle. Like the unholy circle that encompassed the church.

A sudden noise made Dean look up. It had sounded like a faint groan, coming from the direction Sammy was lying in, and he was just about to sigh with relief, when a violent jolt went through his brother's body. In a matter of seconds, Dean was at Sammy's side, placed one arm behind his back and lifted him up to facilitate his breathing. His body started shaking so uncontrollably that the blanket fell off, but still he seemed to be asleep.

"Sammy", Dean whispered, overwhelmed by a new wave of concern for his brother. "Sammy, what's happening?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

Sam turned around just in time to see the reverend lift both arms above his head in a commanding gesture, then the spell that had held all the other spirits in place seemed to dissolve. The _Devil's bit_ released its grasp and allowed them to raise from the benches and face the portal. Or rather, face Sam. Their eyes were still as blank and lifeless as they had been before, and their bodies moved mechanically in unison towards him (at this point, Sam wondered whether the shape of a spirit could be called a 'body', then why on earth he would waste precious seconds on such a ridiculous question). Still, reverend Charleston stood behind the altar and shouted on the top of his lungs: "_If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned_", while his servants moved closer and closer.

Well, Sam thought with a hint of gallows humour, at least there wasn't any doubt left about _who_ had imprisoned these spirits. Thanks to the _Devil's bit _and his knowledge about the _Key of Solomon_, he had a pretty good idea about the _how_. But the _why _was still missing completely.

Another valuable second passed before Sam managed to turn his gaze away from the wall of spirits approaching. The words of the reverend set his thoughts in motion once again, making him combine what he had seen with what Charleston said, but right now he didn't have the time to focus on his cogitations. Grabbing the handles on both wings firmly, he tried to push the door open with all the strength he could muster. At first, it seemed to him that the heavy portal wouldn't budge, but after two more thrusts, the latter one of which Sam performed by hurling his right shoulder against the wood, the door burst open and allowed him to stumble through. Within seconds, the white light engulfed him once more and with it came the sharp pain in his chest. He could almost feel how something called out for him, tried to haul him back into his body, and he was just about to believe that his plan had worked, when he could feel something (or someone?) grabbing him from behind. _No!_, he yelled without a voice that could manifest his scream, panic spreading through his mind. From somewhere, he could hear someone say his name, but the voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Then more words. "Sammy, what's happening?". Dean.

Before he could answer to his brother's call, his whole body was filled by agonizing cramps. It felt as if it was being torn apart from all sides, and Sam knew instinctively that he had to give in to the much stronger power trying to pull him back inside the church if he wanted to keep his sanity. Maybe even his life. It was a question of seconds before he would break off his struggle, but he knew, too, that this might be his last chance to speak to Dean. Therefore, he fought against his assailant's grasp just a few seconds longer and started formulating key words which he hoped Dean would hear and understand. Words that he was made to pay for dearly.

XXXXX

Sam's body shook violently in Dean's arms, he breathed in short, strained gasps, his eyelids fluttered. Then, after something that felt like several minutes but probably had been just a few seconds, they flew open and Sam's hazel eyes stared at Dean, filled with panic and fear. Dean tried to say something, expressing his relieve, his concern, anything, but before a single word could leave his mouth, Sammy let out an excruciated scream and started flinching. He seemed to fight something, something that was attacking him from the inside, then the scream faded away and his lips started to form words. They were a mere whisper, and Dean had to move his ear close to Sammy's face in order to understand what he was trying to say. "R-reverend", Sam muttered, obviously in too much pain to speak clearly. "Charleston. Hell. Not vengeful." At this, he winced and caught his breath, then he went on: "Altar. Remains." His gaze flickered. "Spirit Circle. Key of So-". The last word was cut off by a screech so racked with anguish and despair that Dean's heart seemed to skip a beat, just to continue pumping the blood through his veins twice as fast as before. The scream stopped as abruptly as it had begun, then Sam's body went limp, returning to its quiet state of sleep.

XXXXX

Sam had never felt such physical pain before. Every bone inside his body seemed to be broken, his heart seemed to pump acid through his veins rather than blood and even his skin seemed to be consumed by flames. His own screams of fear and anguish echoed inside his head, intensifying the sharp jolts darting through his brain. He couldn't see, still blinded by the searingly white light, couldn't move, couldn't do anything to stop the raging fire inside him. The touch of Dean's hand on his back felt like a thousand needles drilling themselves into his flesh, but he had to hold on. Just another heartbeat. Just long enough to tell him what was going on here. He forced himself to open his eyes, calmed for a second by the darkness of the night and his brother's familiar features above him. "R-reverend", he managed to utter, every syllable followed by another wave of torment. "Charleston." Just so he knew who most certainly was behind this. Another word, one more. "Hell." A possible motive, maybe. He wasn't sure, how much longer he could bear the pain, but he had to continue. "Not vengeful", he moaned, flinching. The reverend had none of the hallmarks of a typical vengeful spirit. One more, just one more. "Altar." Something had moved the altar stone, though he didn't knew what or why. "Remains." Something was anchoring the reverend to this place, he was sure of it. Another blast of pain, more violent than the last one, but he had to go on. Only two key words left. "_Spirit circle_... is...", he hissed, trying to tell Dean about his own conclusion. "... _Key of So_-". His body exploded in such agony that he was unable to finish the last word. He screamed, screamed like never before in his life, and gave in to the power that tried to drag him back into the church. The pain didn't cease immediately, as it had before, but transformed into a throbbing ache in every part of his body. Now he was able to feel what had pulled him back; icy cold fingers had grabbed him with iron clutches at his shoulders, his legs, his hair, his neck, and though he had surrendered to their demand they didn't let go off him just yet. Instead, they now forced him down on the ground with such strength that every thought of struggle seemed pointless. Slowly, the bright light dimmed down to the flickering shadows of the torches again and allowed Sam to see his assailants: ten of the spirits had surrounded him, while four others were kneeling on his back, his arms and his legs, holding him pinned to the church floor. He could still feel the aftereffects of the binding spell he had fought against, pulsating through his body like liquid fire, and he noted almost thankfully that the pain decreased with each heartbeat.

From afar he could hear the steps of reverend Charleston echoing through the church as he approached Sam, then his voice said in a piercingly cold tone: "_How you have fallen from heaven, O morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations. You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to heaven; I will raise my throne above the stars of my God;...' Those who see you stare at you, they ponder your fate: 'Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble…?_"

"Do I look like Lucifer to you?", Sam muttered, finding it hard to breathe with the weight of Charleston's minions upon him. The question had been rhetorical; obviously, Charleston's spirit was a religious nutjob who saw sin and evil inside everything. Still the reverend answered with another one of his quotes that would have driven Sam crazy if they had been uttered under different circumstances. Now they just filled him with fear of what Charleston could possibly plan to do to _the devil_ _himself._ The devil, yeah right. If the situation hadn't been as dead serious as this, Sam would have derided the preacher's words. Unfortunately, he was in no position to argue.

"_Even Satan can disguise himself to look like an angel of light_", Charleston said slowly, contemplatively. Sam tried to look up towards him at these words, but was rewarded with a violent kick against his temple that brought him close to unconciousness. Could spirits actually black out?, he thought, once again wondering about how ... _lifelike_ ... it felt to be a spirit.

"Bring him forth", he heard the reverend say, then he was pulled to his legs and shoved brutally past the rows of benches towards the altar. Charleston strode imperiously in front of the procession while conducting the same gestures as before when he had released his flock. Most of the spirits assumed their old places on the stone benches as they passed them by, except for two shades that were dragging Sam forward. As they got closer to the altar, Sam recognized Peter and Kathy on the second row, as well as some other spirits wearing colours. The _Devil's bit_ was still tightly wound around their bodies and they hadn't moved an inch compared to last time Sam had seen them; apparently, Charleston didn't have as much control over the more recent members of his involuntary flock.

Sam was about to look back to the altar, when Kathy managed to catch his gaze. Her dark green eyes weren't as blank as those of the other spirits, on the contrary, they were still containing a spark of life (energy?) and seemed to commiserate with him. Her lips formed two silent words that pierced right through Sam's heart and more than anything made it apparent to him how deep in the water he really was.

_Help us_, she said.

XXXXX

_No time to panic_, Dean tried to calm himself, staring in disbelief down at Sam's pale face. _He's still alive. So calm down._ _What did he say? You need to remember!_

_Spirit circle. Reverend. A name. Hell._

After laying Sam gently down on the blanket again and spreading the other one out across him, Dean found a pen and a piece of paper in one of the bags and began writing down what he recalled. _Reverend Charleston, the one who died in the fire. Something about revenge. No, __not__ revenge, not vengeful.__ Something about remains. An altar. And a key... what key?_ "Come on, Dean!", he tried to spur on his memory. "What key? Key of So-... What's So-? Oh, come on, you know that one!"

He was sure that he had heard something like that before, though he was equally sure that he hadn't been on a case where that term had come up before. So it had to be something Dad or Sam had talked about at some point. Then it returned to him. "_Solomon_!", he exclaimed. "_The Key of Solomon_!" Now that he knew what to look for, he quickly found the right page in his father's journal and gave himself a quick update on the term. Then he looked at the key words he had written down and tried to connect them with what he had just read, but he wasn't quite able to make head or tail of the twelve words. The _spirit circle_ could mean the consecrated pentacle mentioned in the first book, but apart from that... First of all, the _Key of Solomon_ had nothing to do with hell, not as far as the journal said, as every incantation was based on the invocation of the Lord. Second, the words "not vengeful" and "remains" contradicted as there was no need to find any remains if there was no vengeful spirit. And last but not least, how were "Reverend Charleston" and "Hell" compatible? He opened the journal once more and stared pensively at the passage written with blue ink in his father's hand. Apart from a short introduction as well as a reference to a story about the use of the "_Seal of Solomon_" in imprisoning magical beings, it contained an excerpt from Book I: "_The Great Pentacle. It should be written on sheepskin paper or virgin parchment, the which paper should be tinted green. The circle with the 72 divine letters should be red or the letters may be gold. The letters within the pentacle should be the same red, or sky blue everywhere, with the great name of God in gold. It serves to convene all spirits; when shown to them they will bow and obey you._" Behind it, his father had written "_Seal of Solomon? Spirit Circle?_" Turning the page, Dean found a small black and white picture of the _Great Pentacle_ which had been pasted to the paper. The pentacle itself was placed inside a full circle and drawn in double lines, between which Latin names and several symbols had been inserted. Symbols familiar to Dean.

"I'll be damned", he muttered and walked back to one of the stones he had found outside the church.

As he had expected, the pentacle on the stone matched the one in his father's journal concerning the composition as well as the position of the Latin terms and the symbols. However, both the words and the symbols themselves didn't correspond at all to the ones in the journal. While those on three of the stones were names of various demons and the devil that he had heard before, the ones on the headstone in the archway were completely unfamiliar to Dean, reading _Animum vult decipi, ergo decipiatur_ inside the cirle and_ Vis, vis, vis_ inside the pentagram.

"So not the _Key of Solomon_", he thought aloud, which was in conformity with the strange formation of the _spirit circle _that he had noticed before. After all, the stones weren't positioned in the shape of a pentagram or a circle but rather in that of a cross, beginning at the archway and ending behind the altar stone.

Still... Something had to be responsible for the unholy circle around the ruins... Maybe, he pondered, they had just been looking in the wrong place.

Dean stared pensively at the piece of paper, then he turned it around and began drawing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

"_Our enemy, the Devil, roams around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. We will be firm in our faith and resist him_", Charleston bellowed and built himself up in front of the altar. His hand reached for a small object lying beside the open book; a weapon?

Sam could feel his heart pound forcefully against his chest, as he was pushed down on his knees by the spirits. One of them grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look up at Charleston who gazed back with utter contempt in his eyes. Now Sam could see that his hands played with a small dagger with a golden hilt and a polished, silvery blade. Silver, or iron? Sam couldn't help but think about the effect an iron weapon had on ghosts – and the fact that he was a spirit himself right now.

Charleston seemed to recognise Sam's fearful look, because the tiniest hint of a complacent smile showed on his lips as he knelt down in front of him and whispered in his ear, so faint that Sam had trouble understanding the words: "I know who you are."

At first, Sam thought that he must have misunderstood. After all, that raving lunatic had just brought in quote after quote about Sam's_ satanic nature_, so it was pretty obvious that he regarded Sam as Lucifer. But then the reverend continued, prompting Sam to gasp in surprise "You are not the first hunter to try and stop me from saving these souls from damnation." Sam needed a second to process this new information, giving Charleston the chance to go on: "And you are not the first one to atone bitterly for this heresy."

Various thoughts were chasing each other inside Sam's brain, spanning from a whirlwind of theories on what could have taken place here the last 200 years to an utter lack of understanding. After having witnessed the reverend's commanding influence over the spirits inside the church, he had expected him to be behind this, but certainly not out of Christian love and the wish to save them from hell. A thirst for power and insanity stemming from being burnt alive had been his first suggestions. "Let me get this straight", he answered with a voice as firm as possible. "You're keeping all these souls from passing on because you're trying to _help_ them?"

Charleston's green eyes were filled by a deep sincerity when he answered Sam's question: "They were pursuing the way of Satan. I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands."

Suddenly, his swirling thoughts made sense and Sam understood. What had happened was cruel and terrible, but unfortunately it made sense. "You... _you_ were the maniac who burnt down the church?", he exclaimed, horrified by the mere thought of what Charleston had done to keep these souls imprisoned inside the church.

"It was necessary", the young reverend answered almost softly. "Had they just died, their sins would have dragged them down to hell, keeping them imprisoned in flames and torment for all eternity without any chance at redemption. I gave them a new chance!"

"By murdering a whole village?", Sam shot back furiously, "By trapping and torturing innocent hikers?"

Apparently, Charleston was not impressed. "Someone like you, a hunter, a man far from God, wouldn't understand", he muttered. "They had become slaves of their own deadly sins. All of these souls guided by lust, greed, envy, and worse. All of them destined for hell. I am no murderer, I am a saviour! A saint! I sacrificed my own soul to save them!"

"You're nothing but an insane, cold-blooded killer!", Sam spat, trying desperately to free himself from the two spirits before Charleston could take his misconceived understanding of justice out on the young hunter. Unfortunately, they were too strong and the reverend too determined to make him pay. The iron dagger was dashed forward, cutting deep into Sam's cheek and leaving a searingly hot wound that felt as if it was trying to burn its way through his skull. Sam winced, but somehow managed not to cry out. Catching his breath, he went on: "You have their blood on your hands!" He gave Charleston a defiant look as the reverend was about to raise his dagger once again, doing his best not to show how much his first attack had hurt. "And you're most certainly no saint!"

At this, he could feel how the vicelike grip of the spirit to his left, the one that had dug its fingers into his hair, all of a sudden loosened slightly. Not wanting to waste this chance, Sam threw himself forward, mustering what was left of his strength and hurling himself against Charleston's knees. The spirits didn't release him fully, but he succeeded in freeing his left arm and bowling the reverend over at the same time. Charleston gasped in surprise as his body crashed down on the stone floor and the iron weapon slipped from his hand. Sam didn't even think, his reflexes just took over. Dragging the two spirits with him, he reached down and closed his fingers around the hilt of the dagger, driving the blade up and towards the reverend in one swift, dexterous motion. A loud howl echoed through the church as the cold metal found its way through Charleston's spirit body and left a dark red streak on his face. For the first time since Sam had entered Jocassee Church, he could see the spirits move on their own; nothing more than a faint wave that rolled through row after row of souls, but enough to show Sam that they still were quite aware of what was happening around them, even after 200 years of imprisonment.

He didn't stop his attack to take a closer look at them, though. Again, he brought the dagger down upon Charleston, this time aiming for his heart. Unfortunately, the reverend seemed to have some excellent reflexes himself as he proved only a second later. He dodged Sam's offensive, scrambled to his feet and made another one of his gestures, more frantic this time, that would set his minions on Sam. In a last, desperate attempt to bring Charleston down, Sam used the dagger on the two spirits holding him, feeling a deep pain himself at their anguished wails. As expected, they let go of him and withdrew to a far corner of the church, while the other spirits left their places and moved slowly towards him. The reverend didn't stay to find out, whether his servants would succeed. Something like fear flickering in his eyes, he headed for the staircase behind the altar and had almost reached it, when Sam jumped at him from behind. Bringing them both down on the ground, he tried to drive the tip of the blade into Charleston's back, but was surprised by his opponent's sudden counter attack. Somehow, the reverend managed to shove himself off the floor, turn around and kick Sam off in the same movement, catapulting him back with a strength Sam hadn't thought possible of the rather fragile looking man. The force of the attack made him skid a few metres across the floor, until he smashed headfirst into the wooden altar, resulting in an ocean of sparkling stars before his eyes. He must have passed out just for a few seconds, because the next thing he perceived was Charleston standing menacingly above him, the dagger in his hand. "Do not underestimate the power of the Lord, servant of Hell!", he barked, blood dripping from the wound in his face that stretched from his forehead diagonally down to his cheek. "You have no strength inside the House of God!"

Two spirits, not the same as before, seized Sam and pulled him up. For a heartbeat, the stars returned, making him feel too dizzy to put up resistance this time. Obeying another one of Charleston's commands, they dragged him in front of the tall crucifix positioned behind the altar, forced him to turn around and shoved his back so violently against the perpendicular pole that he, still under the influence of the blow against his head, had to fight for breath for a few seconds; just enough time for Charleston's minions to grab his arms, stretch them out and press them against the sides of the cross. Once again, Charleston lifted his arms, this time to make a strange spiralling movement with his right hand, giving Sam just enough time to think: _This is bad, really bad_, before he felt something wind itself around his feet and his legs. No doubt the _Devil's bit_.Slowly, the flower crawled up his torso, found its way to the sides of the crucifix and bound his outstretched arms and hands tightly to the wood.

Once the reverend seemed to be sure that Sam wasn't a threat anymore, he commanded the two spirits to take their place amongst the others, lowered his arms, stepped in front of the altar and faced his flock. "Do not fear!", he roared, "You have been blessed by this gift, been given a chance to redeem yourself!"

Not one of the spirits reacted to Charleston's words, though Sam clearly could see the fear in Peter and Kathy's eyes. He wondered what they had had to endure since they had entered the reverend's death trap, what they had heard and seen since that fateful night. _Don't worry_, he tried to tell them with an encouraging look that almost required more hope and mental strength than he had left. _Help is on the way_. He didn't know whether Dean even had heard his words or, in case he had, whether he would interpret them correctly, but seeing as he (his spirit, anyways) was bound to a cross inside a gigantic spirit circle there wasn't much more left than hope. Dean had gotten him out of worse situations, he tried to quiet himself down, he would find a solution. He always did.

Looking back at the reverend, Sam could see him move back to the other side of the altar. As he stepped onto one of the large stone tiles, it shook almost impercebtibly, catching Sam's eye. It was nearly impossible to see, but the tile seemed to be seperated from the others by a thin dark line, and in one of the corners, Sam discovered a tiny opening, maybe large enough to stick one, maybe two slim fingers into it. A trap door? Sam remembered one of his sources claiming that Charleston had made some changes concerning the church, but he hadn't time to think more about his finding, as the reverend's next movements demanded his complete attention. He seemed to prepare another spell by using both the book and the basin filled with ... blood? Sam followed his actions thoroughly, trying to make head or tail of this particular kind of ritual. At first, Charleston dipped his finger into the dark liquid and drew a double-lined circle around the cross, followed by a double-lined pentagram inside it with the crucifix' perpendicular pole in the middle. Then he began writing Latin names and various symbols between the lines; obviously he was trying to secure Sam's spirit additionally through a _Key of Solomon_. Unless... "Wait a second...", he whispered when he discovered what distinguished this pentagram from the original pentacle. The names were supposed to be divine, the names of God and the like, but instead he recognised names of various demons and different terms for "Satan". Suddenly, the unholy circle outside the ruins made a lot more sense, Sam thought. Loud he said: "An invert _Key of Solomon_? You gotta be kidding me!" He hadn't expected any answer at all, but Charleston chuckled silently at his words and answered quietly: "I had to give my soul to save them. Alas, like this I was unable to make use of the original pentagram."

The history of this place was growing more crazy by the minute, Sam thought, completely gobsmacked. "You sold your soul to the devil?"

"Once my task is fulfilled, Hell is what awaits me. A sacrifice I am more than willing to make", the reverend answered cryptically, but by now Sam was pretty sure that his first idea about Charleston's remains being buried somewhere inside the ruins had been correct. Something had anchored him to this church, something much stronger than a satanic _spirit circle_. That _something_ just had to be his corpse. Or at least a part of it. The trap door behind the altar came to his mind again, but he hadn't time to dwell on the thought and in his current position he couldn't have done anything about it anyways. "You, however", Charleston went on, "will be thrown back into the fire, creature of darkness."

Sam gulped nervously and sent a silent prayer to Dean. _Come on, bro!_

"This man", the reverend said while turning around to face his flock, "as fearful as he may appear, is merely a poor soul possessed by a servant of Lucifer." He made his way through the rows of spirits, walking with resolute steps towards the archway. "You, my sons and daughters, have been blessed with a chance at redemption. I will drive the demon from this body before the eyes of God, bringing all of you closer to Him."

Slightly confused, Sam gazed after the reverend. He had expected him to use the knife on him, piercing it right through his heart as he would have done, but obviously, he had other plans with him. Charleston disappeared shortly behind the veil on the other side of the church, while Sam grew more nervous by the second, his body remembering too well how painful his last two encounters with the reverend's means of torture had been.

Sadly, his fears proved to be quite understated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

This had to be it. Dean gazed at the drawing of the clearing he just had finished, positioning the church in the middle and outlining a _Great Pentacle_ around and through it. The middle of the pentagram was situated exactly the same place as the church, cornering it on each side. Its apexes were touching the tree line of the clearing, which at the same time constituted the circle. Following his drawing like a map, Dean walked towards the bushes where the _Devil's bit_ was growing, marking this as the first apex, and followed the circle until he discovered another spot where the violet flower had shot out of the ground like weeds. Unsurprisingly, each apex on the map was denoted by _Devil's bit_. So Sam had been right, the plant was being used as an amplification for a binding spell. Remembering what his brother had said about the flower, especially the part about its roots being used in Hoodoo magic, Dean knelt down beside one of the apexes, the one on the western side of the church, and began digging with a broad-bladed knife. He had to excavate quite a lot of soil before he finally found something interesting: about 4 feet below ground, his knife hit something with a bright sound, like metal scraping on metal. Removing the earth around it, Dean was able to retrieve a small, filigree chest made out of silver, covered by an oxidised layer, measuring 15 by 15 inches and protected by a delicately worked lock. Nothing the blade of a slim knife couldn't handle, but he needed to be careful, not knowing whether the contents of the chest were protected somehow. Using the EMF on the chest, he was able to determine that it hadn't been in direct contact with the spirit world, so he could rule some kind of trapped, angry spirit out that would attack him as soon as he opened the lid. Next, he consulted his father's journal on magic traps and curses. Unfortunately, there was now way of detecting magic John knew of, so Dean wasn't left with many choices.

A sudden feeling of panic rushed through him, soon replaced by fear, then he felt a burning hot pain inside his right hand, and it took him several seconds to understand that these emotions must have come from Sammy. He didn't know how or why and he was still afraid of letting too much of his brother, words or feelings, float into him as he didn't know at what point he wouldn't be able to control them anymore, but he decided that the best way to help Sam was to act fast. Though it almost hurt him physically to ignore his brother's pain, he brushed it aside, took a small knife from his bag and forced the lock on the chest open with its blade. Another stab of pain, this time in his left hand, but again he paid not further attention to it. The lid sprang open and revealed two relics Dean had expected to find inside of it: a root from the _Devil's bit_ and a smaller version of the strange _Great Pentacle_ carved into an iron amulet, inscribed with the words he had found on the headstone too. "Bingo", he whispered and placed the chest on the ground, a few inches behind the line of the unholy circle, thereby breaking the binding spell. The first part of Sam's riddle was solved, leaving the remains of the unvengeful reverend Charleston and the altar.

_Hang in there, Sammy, _Dean thought, only recalling Sam's emotions too well. _I'll get you out of there!_

XXXXX

Sam struggled violently against the bonds of _Devil's bit_ that held him pinned against the large crucifix when he discovered _what_ Charleston had fetched from the room behind the veil. A small hammer. And two small wooden stakes with iron spikes. "You're mad!", he cried out as the reverend slowly made his way through the church, his eyes fixed on Sam's. Once he had reached him, he stopped and raised one of the stakes up to Sam's right hand. "Do not fear, my son", he said calmly. "This will drive Lucifer's servant from your body."

Sam _did_ fear. The wound on his cheek was still bleeding and hurting like hell after nothing but a thin scratch inflicted by the iron dagger; he couldn't even imagine how excruciatingly painful an iron spike piercing right through his ghostly body would be. "You're not ser-", he began but would never finish his sentence. Charleston lifted the hammer and brought it crashing down on the stake that cut right through Sam's palm and sent out wave after wave of burning hot suffering through his hand, his arm, his chest. A splitting scream filled the church, soon stifled by a tormented whimper. Through a veil of tears Sam could see the reverend raising the next stake to pin down his left hand as well, and, almost drowned out by his sobs, he could hear him say: "Begone, oh Lucifer!"

"You're – complety – insane!", Sam panted amid tears, unable to utter a whole sentence coherently, then a new explosion of pain was sent through his body and rendered any other words impossible. He could feel how his spirit body panically tried to withdraw from the iron inside his hands and the torment caused by it while at the same time being helplessly bound to the crucifix by the invert _Key of Solomon_. Even worse, this time the pain didn't just cease after a while like it had after his stunt with trying to breach Charleston's binding spell. It just kept hurting, sending surges of agony through him every time his spirit body tried to break free from the destructive force of the iron and hit the _Devil's bit_ and the _Key_, and again every time it was pressed back against the crucifix and the iron spikes. If someone had asked Sam to describe what he was feeling or thinking during these minutes, maybe hours of torture, he wouldn't have been able to answer. The pain drowned everything else out, every thought, every other emotion, just everything. He didn't even know whether he was screaming, or swearing, or crying, or even begging Charleston to stop it, even if that meant that he would kill him. The only thing bursting through his torment was his brother's voice, nothing more than a comforting thought, a faint _I'll get you out of there!_ that came and went, then the pain was back and Sam's mind went blank.

Suddenly, it stopped. First, Sam thought that maybe the reverend had succeeded, maybe he had actually killed another hunter, through nothing but sheer pain, and that he was dead for good this time. That thought was further consolidated when he opened his eyes, blinked the tears away and could see nothing but darkness around him. But then he heard Dean's voice coming from somewhere behind him, somewhere close, calling his name. Had he stumbled into Charleston's trap? The thought of having to watch Dean's spirit being nailed to the reverend's crucifix was almost too much to bear and he panted panically: "Don't! – Leave – him – alone!". Then he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, shaking him. His concerned voice once more. "Sammy! Sammy, are you alright?"

"Dean, it's a trap! He's using an invert _Key of Solomon_ to –", he gasped and tried to get up by rolling himself onto his side, but Dean held him back, saying reassuringly: "Easy there, dude. It's over."

At first, his words didn't make any sense to Sam. The memories of what he had been through was still too recent, the pain still too close. How could he have left the _spirit circle _if he hadn't even been able to leave the cross, let alone the church? But then, slowly, his reasonable side took over and told him how simple the answer was. Someone else had breached the circle from the outside. Someone who knew what to look for and how to destroy it. Dean.

"Had me pretty worried for a moment", his brother went on and helped him sit up. When Sam looked up at him, Dean returned his gaze with a lopsided smile and put on his leather jacket. "Screaming like a banshee. What happened back there?"

Sam took a deep breath, still not really sure he dared believing that he had escaped Charleston's ghostly hell. "It's a long story", he finally said. "Let's save it for a rainy day." Then he changed the subject to a more pressing matter: "Did you burn his remains?"

Dean shook his head, pointing at a small bag of salt that lay beside them on the ground. "Was just on my way when you started screaming. You think that bastard is buried beneath the altar stone?" At the last three words, Sam could see Dean's breath condensating in front of his mouth like they hit a wall of ice, then the cold reached them both.

"Dammit!", Dean exclaimed, his body tensening visibly. He grabbed his shotgun, jumped up and took a defensive stand in front of Sam, who needed a few heartbeats more to scramble to his feet. After everything he had been through, he was still feeling lightheaded and dangerously weak, and it felt far too hard to move his physical body. "You okay?", he heard Dean say, but before he was able to answer, a flickering shadow appeared in front of his brother and attacked without a warning. He could see the ghostly shade of reverend Charleston, his face blinded by rage and distorted by the ugly wound Sam had inflicted, charging Dean with the small iron knife that he had used on Sam's spirit inside the church. Fortunately, his brother reacted much faster than Sam could have in his current condition; with a loud bang he fired his weapon, hitting Charleston directly in the chest. The ghost vanished into thin air, but the cold spot around them remained, betraying his whereabouts.

"You get his remains, I'll hold him off!", Dean yelled, firing another shot in the same instant the reverend appeared again. Sam nodded, reached for the bag of salt and stumbled towards the altar stone on legs that felt an awful lot like jelly. He wasn't able to see that much, as Dean's flashlight was lying somewhere on the ground back by the archway, but the thin streak of pale moonlight from above and his own recollection of the church's design enabled him to find his target in the dark. Behind him, he could hear another shot, then he had reached the slab of stone. As he had expected, someone had moved it closer to the wall, thereby concealing the trap door underneath it. Charleston must have had help, he pondered, someone who had moved the wooden table as well as the altar stone on top of the trap door before the church had burnt down, and with it everything made out of wood. Possibly some poor soul that had believed the reverend when he had prophesised him an eternity in hell if he didn't assist him. Or another religious fanatic – Sam didn't care. Once the remains were cremated, this nightmare would stop once and for all.

He knelt down in front of the slab, placing both hands on its side, and started pushing as hard as he could, but soon had to discover that the altar stone was too massive to be moved by him alone. Charleston must have had more than one loyal servant when he still had been breathing.

"Hurry up, Sammy!", he heard Dean call, followed by another bang and the sound of him reloading the shotgun.

"It's too heavy!", he shot back, yet he still tried to move the slab once more by stemming his feet against the foundational wall behind the altar stone and putting all of his body weight into the next shove. This time, he actually managed to move the stone block about half an inch before reaching a dead end. He let go of the stone and opened his mouth to call for Dean once more, when he felt a sudden surge in temperature right in front of him. Somehow he managed to dodge a direct blow to his head, but was still hit in the chest by something that felt like a sledgehammer and catapulted him backwards into the air. Crashing violently into one of the walls behind him, he panted for breath as the air was knocked out of him. Somewhere in front of him, he thought he heard Charleston's voice say _You are mine, hunter!_, but it might as well have been his mind playing tricks on him. Another invisible punch tossed him against the wall once more before he could even think about reaching into his pocket and retrieving his bag of salt, leaving him dizzy and far too vulnerable. Having one's soul pulled out from one's body sure seemed to take its toll.

"You better worry about me, you son of a bitch!", he heard Dean roar, followed by another shot from his weapon, then he felt a bright light on his face and his brother's hand on his shoulder, trying to heave him up. "No time for rest, Sammy", he spurred him on and fastened the flashlight to his leather belt. "Salt around the stone, now!" Sam staggered to his feet just in time to see Dean shoot another load of rock salt at the reverend, grabbed the bag of salt and hurried to spread the mineral around the altar stone in a large circle. Not a second too soon. Charleston attacked again, but was forced to retreat once he reached to invisible barrier protecting the two brothers. _You cannot escape your fate, hunter_, Sam perceived his voice even through the circle, but had neither the time nor any inclination to answer. Kneeling down in front of the slab beside Dean and using the foundation wall as a lever once more, they both pushed with all their might and managed to move the altar stone inch by inch until they finally had cleared the trap door. Sam, remembering exactly where the small hole had been, stuck his finger into the gap without hesitation and pulled the tile up with a loud groan. It moved easier than he had expected, but it still took him several painstakingly slow seconds to open the door completely. Seconds, their adversary didn't leave unexploited. A strong wind arose, tugging at the salt of their protective circle and threatening to tear it away. "Haven't got all day, Sammy", Dean edged him on, his voice expressing anxiety.

"Don't ...", Sam replied, moving the tile an inch more. "call ..." Another inch. "... me that!", he gasped and flung the tile over, revealing a gaping pit of darkness underneath. Another bang sounded, then Dean turned around to look at the entrance. "After you, princess", he said with a smirk and fired the third shot, leaving him with only one more before he needed to reload. Sam gave his brother his enervated _We'll-talk-about-this-later_-look and lowered his body into the hole, trying to find anything he could place his feet on. "Pretty deep", he muttered when he wasn't able to touch the ground. Dean understood immediately, laid the shotgun down and grasped Sam's hands, enabling him to reach deeper, until he, after approximately seven feet, felt stony ground beneath his shoes. He let go of Dean's wrists and turned around to help his brother down, who gathered the shotgun and the rest of the salt and followed Sam down into the blackness. From above, they could hear an infuriated roar, then salt was blown down to them. The circle had been breached. Dean swore under his breath, sent a shot up through the hole and hurried to reload the gun, while Sam reached for the flashlight, turned it on and illuminated the darkness around them.

"It's a crypt", he whispered, as the beam of light touched upon walls all around them, intermitted by three niches on the eastern, western and southern side of the small chamber they were standing in. It measured roughly ten by ten feet and seemed to have been carved directly out of solid rock. Inside the niches, there had been placed three undecorated stone sarcophagi.

"Great", Dean sighed irritated. "Because we've got so freakin' much time for choices!" As if on cue, the air around them grew colder, then Sam was carried off his feet by the same invisible force as before, colliding painfully with one of the stone coffins. The flashlight slid from his fingers and rolled a few inches away from him, still alighting a large part of the crypt. Certainly enough to see Charleston's shade built itself up menacingly in front of him. _At least_, he thought with a grim sense of humour, _he's going after the weakest link of the chain_. If he had had enough breath, he would have cursed his body for reacting so rigorously to what it had been through. _I will take you to hell with me!_, Charleston threatened him inside his head, but another load of salt from the shotgun foiled his plans once more. "Which one is it?", Dean inquired in a commanding voice, already working on removing the lid from the sarcophagus in the western niche. Sam got up and hurried to his brother's side, helping him throw the heavy stone cover to the ground where it burst into three pieces. "I've no idea", he panted, producing a bag of salt from his pocket and spreading a handful of the mineral on the corpse inside the coffin, already decomposed out of recognition. "Oh no, you don't!", he heard Dean yell beside him, then another shot was fired. "Got anything inflammable?", Sam asked while fetching a lighter from inside his jacket. "In my pocket!", Dean gave back, "Hold this!" He held the shotgun in front of Sam's face, waited a heartbeat for him to take it and pulled a small flask from his leather jacket, emptying some of its content on the corpse. Sam felt a cold breeze behind him and managed to turn around and shoot just in time to dissolve reverend Charleston once more, then he yelled: "Dean!" and threw the shotgun back at Dean who caught it in a dextrous motion. Igniting the lighter, Sam hurried back to the coffin and set what was left of the remains inside it on fire.

"Wrong dead guy!", Dean commented as Charleston's spirit appeared behind Sam only an instant later and let the knife shoot out at his brother's back. Sam understood Dean's warning and hurled himself to the side, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid getting hit. The iron blade was stabbed deep into his shoulder, causing him to gasp in pain, but disintegrated together with Charleston a second later when the next shot hit the reverend in the chest. "Thanks", Sam huffed, ignoring the blood pouring from the wound and focusing on the next sarcophagus. Together, they lifted the lid, and Sam was about to let out a relieved sigh seeing that the coffin was empty and they thus had ruled out two out of three, when the cold spot returned. While Sam still held the stone cover, trying to lower it without getting his fingers caught, Dean turned around, readying his shotgun, but apparently their opponent had decided to alter his tactic.

It all happened so fast that Sam hadn't the tiniest chance to evade Charleston's next assault.

The lid was pulled from his hands, then the same force got a hold of him and dragged him forward with such strength that he was hurled forcefully into the coffin, knocking the back of his head hard against the stone bottom. With a loud thud, the lid fell back down on the sarcophagus, trapping him inside the musky darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8**

Dean had just turned around, when a cold gust shot past him, then he heard his brother yelp in alarm. Before he could aim the shotgun at the reverend's ghost, it had managed to draw Sam into the coffin and slammed the lid shut. "Sammy!", Dean called and fired another load at their adversary, hindering him from disappearing into the coffin where he couldn't reach him.

He heard a muffled response, focusing solely on the word "okay" and ignoring the fear for his brother's life that was building itself up inside of him once again. "Okay"just would have to do for now. Dean looked at the third sarcophagus in the eastern niche which _had_ to contain the remains of the reverend, moving towards it without wasting another valuable second. When he felt the chilly breeze this time, he reflexively threw himself on the floor, used the impetus of the fall to roll around and get back on his feet and fired one more shot at the shade of the reverend that had built itself up behind him. Ten seconds till he'd be back. Dean laid the shotgun on the ground and grabbed the lid of the sarcophagus, lifting it as quickly as his muscles would allow and tossing it over as soon as it overbalanced. Inside, he could see the corpse of a man dressed in rotten black gowns, the handle of a dagger showing from his chest. Using what was left inside the flask, he soaked the reverend's clothes in gasoline, spread a handful of salt on the body and searched for a lighter inside his pocket when he was suddenly lifted up and tossed forward so forcibly that he let out a cry of surprise, abruptly interrupted by a desperate gasp for air when he hit the wall and crashed into the coffin holding Charleston's remains.

From the other side of the chamber, he could hear Sammy yell his name, but he hadn't any breath left to tell him that he was alright. More or less, anyways. While he still tried to regain full consciousness, he heard an inauspicious scraping coming from behind the sarcophagus, like stone against stone, then the lid came flying back into place so fast Dean hadn't the time to react. Almost inaudibly, he heard Sam call Charleston's name this time, then darkness engulfed him.

XXXXX

Sam didn't wait to find out whether he suffered from claustrophobia. Only a second after the lid had closed, he stretched both arms out, placed them on the inner side of the cover stone and tried to push it up, stemming his back against the bottom of the coffin. Nothing happened. _Dammit!_, he swore silently, attempting to apply more strength, but the lid just wouldn't budge. Through the thick stone, he could hear Dean call his name, another shot sounded. How much air did a solid stone sarcophagus hold?, he thought, feeling a tinge of fear arise inside him that he managed to brush away for now. Enough for him to survive an hour at the least, he calmed himself. More than enough time for Dean to get rid of the reverend. "I'm okay!", he shouted back at Dean, hoping his brother could hear him and would return to focusing on the task at hand.

Another bang, meaning Dean would have to reload. But the familiar clicking didn't sound. Sam tried to breathe as silently as possible, trying to pick up anything from outside the coffin. Nothing. His heart beat violently inside his chest, causing the blood to rush in his ears. Still nothing. Then, finally, he heard another thud, probably the lid of the third sarcophagus falling, which meant Dean had almost made it. But the relieve he had felt was overpowered by concern just an instant later when he heard a loud scream, followed by the sound of a body crashing against stone. "Dean!", he called at the top of his voice and tried once more to break free from his prison without succeeding. "Dean, are you alright? Talk to me, bro!", he yelled, not caring about how much air he was using anymore. He hammered his fists against the inner side of the stone lid, again and again, desperately trying to move the heavy cover. No use. He had to attempt something else. "I'm here, Charleston!", he called out for the reverend this time, hoping that maybe the spirit's desire for revenge was stronger than his sense of reason. "It's me you want, you bastard! Come and get –". He nearly choked on the last word, _me_, when he felt the air growing chilly around him, stopping every movement and fearfully staring into the darkness around him. He was here. He could feel him. Icy cold metal touched his left cheek, moved down, reached his chest and slashed right through his shirt, leaving a long, bloody mark on his skin. The next cut was deeper, closer to the heart and far more painful, causing Sam to let out a frightened yelp.

_Embrace Hell, hunter_, Charleston whispered. Sam cried out, first in panic, then in anguish when he felt the dagger being placed on his chest and pushed down, slowly, painstakingly slowly.

XXXXX

Dean coughed, racked with a searing pain in his back and his head, tasting blood in his mouth. "Son of a bitch", he hissed and tried to push the lid off as soon as his strength returned, but it wouldn't move an inch. Beneath him, the corpse squished at every one of his movements, but at least the gasoline drowned out the smell of the dead body. Cursing under his breath, he made an attempt to sit up and shove the reverend's remains as far away from him as possible. Sam shouted something more that he couldn't understand, but he seemed to be cut off in the middle of his words; not a good sign. Neither was the short scream that followed his words. Dean could feel his heart begin to race at the thought of his little brother being alone with that psychotic s.o.b. inside the darkness of the narrow sarcophagus. He made another effort to remove the cover stone, this time sitting on his knees and stemming his back against it, but again he failed. Charleston must be using his ghostly powers to keep it locked in place, he supposed, and if that was true, he wouldn't be able to break free by relying on his strength. "Dammit!", he exclaimed, hammering his fists helplessly against the lid.

Then he heard Sammy scream again, much louder and much more stricken by despair than before, and he knew without a doubt that if he didn't act now it would be too late for the both of them.

He had to do something, _anything_.

"I must be crazy", he muttered while searching through the pockets of his leather jacket. God, he only hoped this would work...

XXXXX

Though Sam's reasonable side knew only too well that he couldn't touch Charleston's spirit, not to mention _hurt_ it, his body seemed to ignore that fact. At first, when the dagger only had stung his skin, he had tried to find something useful inside his pockets, before he recalled that the bag of salt was lying in front of the sarcophagus together with his lighter. Then, when the pain grew stronger, his fingers started scanning the inside of the coffin for anything that might come in handy, a piece of iron, a grain of salt that might have fallen into it, but he had to give up empty handed. After that, his reason had surrendered and left him to struggle against the reverend's murderous intentions without any weapons. He tried to hurl himself from side to side, hoping that maybe the dagger would slip off, then, when he felt how dangerously close its tip was to his heart, he raised his arms once again in a desperate attempt to fling the lid off the sarcophagus, screams accompanying his every move.

_We will go together, you and I, my last service to this world_, Charleston hissed and Sam could feel how the pressure on the dagger intensified. His screams turned into a frantic breathing, his fingernails tried to drill themselves into the stone beneath him and broke. For a second, he was sure he had passed out, when suddenly the dagger was drawn back. An orange glow filled the coffin, stemming from Charleston's ghostly shade and disappearing only a heartbeat later, then a horrible scream echoed through the chamber, trailed off into a quiet whimper and finally relapsed into silence. Dean had done it.

Sam needed a short moment to catch his breath and to check whether the weapon had inflicted any permanent damage he had to take into account before he overstrained his body, but changed his mind when he heard a panicky yell coming from outside. "A little help here!" Stemming himself against the bottom of the sarcophagus again, he mustered all of his strength and shoved the lid away in one forceful motion. The orange light was still illuminating the chamber, coming from the eastern niche, where flames stood high out of the stone coffin. In front of it, his brother was performing some kind of confusingly erratic dance that Sam first understood when he discovered the smaller flames burning their way through Dean's jacket and trousers. Without hesitating any further, he jumped out of the sarcophagus and hurried towards him, taking his own jacket off and using it to extinguish the fires on his clothes. When he accidentally touched Dean's hand, his brother jerked backwards and let out an annoyed groan, rubbing his fist and muttering something under his breath. "Let me see that", Sam demanded and grabbed Dean's wrist, forcing his fingers open. "Ouch", he remarked at the small blisters spread widely on the palm. Then he looked up at Dean and made a compassionate hissing sound as he discovered the burns on Dean's bare skin. "Dude, what happened?"

"I had to do something to get your ass out of there, didn't I?", Dean replied, his lips forming some kind of grimaced smirk. Sam could easily see how much the notion had to hurt, but he decided not to comment on his brother's semi-brave attempt to cover his pain. "And you thought setting yourself on fire was the best way to do that?", he replied in the same tone Dean was using, put his singed jacket back on and pointed at the hole in the ceiling.

"Guess we both have some catching up to do", Dean sighed and accepted Sam's helping hand to get the hell out of the crypt.

XXXXX

The way back to Pickens had been a blur to Sam. He recalled having used the first aid kit they had brought to the ruins extensively, first treating Dean's burns, then focusing on the wounds the reverend had caused. On the way back to the car, the adrenaline had stopped pumping through his veins and the past events had finally taken their toll. His head had started spinning, black shadows had danced in front of his eyes and the next thing he had realised was the purring engine of the Impala beneath him, a mild breeze of air coming from the ventilation system and a fuzzy blanket keeping him warm. Then he must have dozed off again, only vaguely remembering Dean calling his name and shaking him when they had reached the motel. He thought he recalled Dean supporting him part of the way to their room, but wasn't too sure about any details when he awoke the next day.

"Well, aren't you a Sleeping Beauty", was the first thing he heard, accompanied by the radio being turned on, playing _Morning After _byChester Bennington. Far too loud for his taste. "Ugh", Sam managed to groan. He tried sitting up, but sank back into the soft matress underneath him with a whimper. "Did... did you get the license plate of the truck that ran me over?", he muttered, rubbing his temple in a feeble attempt to sooth the throbbing pain inside his head. The rest of his body didn't feel much better, displaying a frighteningly large number of cuts and bruises.

"Nope", Dean replied with a wide grin and rustled with a brown paper bag, "but I've got you breakfast." His face was covered in band aids and he limped slightly when he walked over to the bed, obviously in an awful lot of pain but apparently too proud to complain about it. He must've scared the hell out of the poor waitress at the sandwich bar, Sam pondered, but then again... he was Dean, after all, and he was still able to smile.

"How long was I out?", Sam asked with some delay, this time forcing himself to stand up, grabbing his jeans that were lying on a chair beside the bed and putting them on with some difficulty. Damn, that hurt! He didn't even remember taking his clothes off last night.

Dean reacted on his clumsy movements with a raised eyebrow, a short laugh and finally a mocking "Need some help there, princess?"

"Funny", Sam shot back, sitting down on the bed again and opening the sandwich bag. "Seriously, dude, how long?"

Dean sat down on the chair opposite to him and took one of sandwiches before he answered, suddenly a lot more serious. "Bit more than a day. Whatever happened to you in that church, it must've really drained you for energy."

Sam sighed, not really up for a long resumé right now, but he finally gave in and told his brother about the events inside the church, stopping once in a while to eat his breakfast. Meanwhile, Dean packed their things, making sure they hadn't forgotten anything, then they checked out of the motel and were back on the road some time after noon. When Sam had finished his story, shortly after they had left South Carolina, Dean slowed down and stared at him with something that Sam interpreted as a mixture of distress and compassion, but didn't comment on his story. They stopped at an inn somewhere outside Ecusta, North Carolina, to get some dinner-to-go, then Dean recounted how he had spent the night, concluding with how he had set the corpse on fire while he was still locked inside the stone coffin. "You're nuts", Sam declared once Dean had finished, though he didn't really mean it. He would have done exactly the same to save his brother from anything threatening him. "But thanks anyways", he added an instant later, smiling warmly.

"Yeah, no big deal", Dean muttered, scratching at one of the band aids. A short moment of akward silence ensued, then Dean broke it by changing the subject: "Emma called me yesterday morning. Leyla sends her thanks. The voices are gone."

"That's good to hear", Sam replied with a smile.

"And I've done some research while you were out", his brother continued, not reacting to Sam's impressed whistle. "Turns out there actually _is_ a way to pull a man's soul from his body, the so-called _Astral Projection_, possible by using an incantation, _Animum vult de-something-vis, vis, vis_. Combined with a _Key of Solomon_, you can drag the spirit out and keep it trapped. Very clever for a simple preacher."

"The man was insane", Sam pointed out, staring absentmindedly out of the window. "and if we can do research on the spirit world, so could he. I guess it's just a question of being devoted enough to one's faith."

"Yeah, probably..." Dean reached for a bottle of water and took a long sip, then he began searching for a new radio channel while continuing: "What I don't get is why Leyla went crazy after hearing the voices of her friends. I mean, I heard your voice too, kinda. Could even feel your pain when that nutjob tried to split your hands in half."

"Guess, she was just more sensible to the spirit world around her", Sam explained. "Once the other spirits inside the church thought they had found someone who could hear them, they came at her like hungry wolves, leaving some kind of imprint that existed for as long as they did. I could feel them too when we entered the ruins at night, remember?"

Dean snorted in feigned indignation. "So you're saying I'm an insensible klutz?"

"_Your_ words, not mine.", Sam grinned, his eyes twinkling teasingly.

Dean stared at him and countered with a dry voice: "If you're feeling so much better, I guess it's your turn to sleep on the floor again."

"We'll see about that", Sam retorted and leaned back in his seat, stretching himself luxuriously and enjoying the comfortable normality of quarreling with his brother while Asia's _Daylight_ played in the radio and the sun went down behind them.


End file.
